


In a World of Stone, You are Velvet

by malakai



Series: In a World of Stone [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Adult Content, Blood Brothers, Bloodletting, Bloodplay, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Gore, Higher beings, Multi, Multiple Partners, Not crossing streams here, Smut, Supernatural Shenanigans, m/f/m
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-03-05 21:58:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 72,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13397100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malakai/pseuds/malakai
Summary: The magic, which has kept Lazarus safe all these years, is cold and numbing. It is a pretty illusion and a bitter lie, but a lie Laz nonetheless has come to trust and accept―until vampire blood stains her tongue. As it eternally flows, the magical chains that bind her begin to crack. Something dark and ancient dwells inside her.It's awake and it wants to be free.





	1. To Each Their Own

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by the books and the games, but you won't need to read the series to understand. I'll make sure to explain it clearly. Also, just to get it out of the way; Lazarus is not a witcher. I figured there were enough stories out there with that plotline and I actually like the idea of Ciri being the one and only female witcher... I love her so much *cries*

Nearly a year had gone by for Lazarus with a voyage ending in a balmy, sunny southern land. Alone but untroubled for the better part, Toussaint welcomed her to a change in both hospitality and fable-like scenery. Much different than the harsh conditions and scorn demeanor that ran Velen like a perpetual shadow.

As if spurred to take root as quickly as possible, she shared her humble wealth of knowledge and trade, making as many connections as she could with the local folk. Novice alchemist, tiresome barmaid, a worthy friend, and loyalist to Duchess Anna Henrietta, she toted many titles as a result. Though she was of no noble blood nor drowning in riches brought by her multiple trades, what she lacked in coin she made up in a sturdy upbringing built on self-awareness, a woman’s own confidence, and family―however small.

Now standing on the top of a shallow hill, surrounded by a colorful array of blossoms listing under a gentle breeze, the setting sun rays bled between the thick canopy. Light filtered through the leaves and branches created golden spots against the forest floor while an orange blaze burned the horizon. Gloam chased away the burning horizon with a spray of stars, heralding in the clear nightfall.

In one hand she held a basket, the other plucking any flower she found pretty. They were for decoration, not much else.

Earlier, Laz had foraged for roots and other herbs under the clear sky whilst cheerful songbirds flittered about, swooping through tree branches and perching to watch her work, but that quickly grew odious. Staring across the rolling hills of lushed grassy knolls used as vineyards and the rows of ripe fruit trees providing dense shade, she’d never imagined such a paradise existed. But here it was, and here she lived. Her own happily-ever-after. From the swamps of Velen to the frigid isles of Skellige, to the rotten sludge of Novigrad, it’d taken Laz many errors and tribulations until, at last, she found a suitable place to stay and lay roots. Only half the battle.

Dusk was settling over Toussaint’s picturesque landscape, the fire-orange sun sunk lower and lower upon the horizon. The litany of songbirds died down to a solitary poultry, a crying peacock. Her foraging in the Caroberta Woods now over, it was time to return home. Gathering her belongings and her skirts, she trekked back into town.

Entering the crowded and perpetually noisy establishment, Laz was greeted with a merry hum of ale-polluted prattle, and clunking of earthenware. Thunderous laughter erupted from a table full of sailors before they joined together in song. The candelabras flames flickered and danced in each four corner as barmaids toting dark frothy mixtures strode expertly between the revelry without snuffing the flames or spilling tankards. A massive heart filled with a wealthy fire threw a pleasant glow across the din. More laughter provided the dwelling.

Lithe and sure-footed, Laz slipped through the drunken patrons, mindful of their euphoric oblivion and incoherence to others around them where they staggered. She was nearly up the stairs, heading directly to her small bedroom when the familiar voice of a barmaid called to her.

“Laz, did you hear!” Ygritte breathed with palpable excitement, pausing at the bottom of the stairs. “Our Illustrious Highness has summoned a witcher from the North! A correspondence came this morning, he’s coming!”

Ygritte was a well-endowed blonde, pretty if one could look past the freckled aquiline nose, pudgy cheeks, and crooked smile.

“No, I’ve been at the Caroberta Woods since this morning,” Laz stepped down, scanning the inn’s patrons for anyone that might stand out. She’d never seen a witcher before, but Keira, her mother, had said a great deal about them. “Is he here now?”

“No,” Ygritte admitted with a blush, lowering her eyes. “But if he does arrive, I was hoping…”                                                                   

“Give you my section should he land at one of my tables?” Laz shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

She turned away, ending the conversation. If her friend desired to speak to the witcher, one less bellowing mouth she had to cater to.

Pretty Ygritte, always starving for an adventure, abhorred by incessant local lads, and so eager to seek a foreign husband, one that would carry her away from the very place Laz was desperate to find.

To each their own.

 

* * *

 

It was time to depart.

The day to return to Velen was nigh. And while preparations had since been made and multiple letters were sent, they were all without a correspondence. Laz wasn’t sure Keira would be expecting her, or even wanted to see her, an uglier thought she couldn’t stomach. Nonetheless, provisions and other victuals had been gathered and there was no turning back now. Her horse was readied, a small satchel was packed, and several coin purses taught with saved-up gold among other representations of Laz’s gratitude were stashed in her mount’s saddlebags.

Nearly a year ago with a heavy heart and weary mind, Laz had departed the village of Midcopse and into the great unknown. Not such feat could have succeeded had Keira not insisted, encouraged, prepared Laz to live on her own. By the god's grace and sheer will, the lessons proved true and insightful, somehow she had managed. Socializing being the most difficult. People loitered before Keira’s cabin, day and night, howling of inflictions and unfortunate circumstances. They blamed her for misfortunes, praised her when luck struck them and wailed even more over when it fled. Keira would send them away, but they always returned. Young at the time, Laz misunderstood what they wanted and grew to hate the people that waited outside, and thus hated anyone that wasn’t Keira in general. That was when she first heard the scathing remark _witch_ and had quickly grown to despise the slight.

Of course, Keira appeased to their wishes, more often than not. Whether it was a flaccid member, unable to perform his husbandly duties or a strange rash between their toes, unbeknownst that the man had lost interest in his wife and the latter was forgetting to wash everything but her feet. She would cater to their needs.

“ _It’s unwise to cause discord. I’ve already been driven from the Temerian court halls.  I do not want to be exiled from the dumps of Midcopse.”_ she’d said with a certain blase, pinching her cheeks into a rosy blush or apply a gloss across her lips before a mirror. Laz was raised not to appreciate her reflection. Even though what she saw was unsettling, she trusted Keira's assurance.

All Laz knew was Keira took great care of her. Unable to have children of her own, she was nonetheless a doting, affectionate mother. But, it was time for the child to take care of the parent, return the favor and perhaps convince Keira to abandon the harsh countryside of Velen and move to a more fitting environment. If she was lucky, perhaps Keira could return to the courts as a ducal sorceress, like her days of yore in the Temeria halls, advising for King Foltest.

A drawn portrait of the sorceress was rolled and tucked into her satchel. An artist in Beauclair managed to capture Keira’s likeness by the description provided by Laz, since he’d never seen her before. Keira was vain, there was no denying that.

Laz swept her long white hair over her shoulder and wove it into a single plait. A simple navy-blue cambric tunic, tucked into worn brown trousers, and riding boots provided the journey’s attire. It was her best outfit and it was most comfortable. An attempt to show Keira she was well off, well fed, and employed. The journey was going to take several weeks minimum, sturdy attire should last its abuse. Despite Toussaint’s temperate weather, the north would not prove the same. A heavy, black woolen cloak hung asymmetrically from her shoulder, hood withdrawn. She stared at her reflection, looking tired and reluctant.

In truth, she should be excited to see Keira. But a weariness had set in, grating her senses like an abrasive stone, leaving her raw and uncertain. Since she’d awaken, her heart had been knocking painfully against her ribs like a bird caught in a very small cage. Whether it was excitement, trepidation or something else, she was not certain.

Eyeing the woman in the mirror, the Gift Keira had given Laz still held true. The only difference now was a warmer complexion; a result of living under the bright Toussaint sun. Albeit, when she first arrived, she was as pale and alluring as a mollusk.

_This is who you are, Lazarus of Everheart. You must embrace it._

A shadow darkened her expression. Keira's words. Not her own.

Unable to stare at her reflection any longer, she left the tavern in haste.

“Tell the witcher I said hello,” she yelled over her shoulder towards Ygritte before the door slammed.

Mounting, she draped the heavy cloak off one side of the horse. The hot sun was blazing and bright. She could feel the trickles of sweat on her lower back and the warm saddle beneath her. Though the attire would normally garner absurd glances, it was for the unforgiven winter that plagued Velen she was prepared for.  When the inevitable temperatures dropped, she could adjust it over both shoulders and spread the length of it over her horse's backside.

Saddled and ready, she cinched the ties of her cloak tighter and heeled the horse into a canter northward towards Velen.


	2. A Witcher

Laz arrived on the southern end of Midcopse, rode through and out of the village until arriving at Keira's thatched-roof cabin.

After dismounting, she knocked at first, but met no answer. Trying to knob, the unlocked door creaked open, revealing a ransacked interior.

Spurred with alarm, Laz stormed passed the threshold and glanced about.

"Keira?"

Little remained of worthy possessions sans broken trinkets, invaluable to the ignorant, untrained eye.

Standing in the main room, Laz looked around at the toppled chairs and tables. Potted plants had been thrown onto their sides, spilling dirt across the floor. Their leaves wilted from neglect and the damp air reeked of mildew and rotten food. Outside the wind howled a forlorn tune, the bare tree limbs clattering like dried bones.

Again, Laz had called out for Keira but no answer came. Moving towards the bedroom, booted feet knocking on the wooden floor. The bed was made but empty. She tried the dry storage, lifting the heavy door up and peering down in the dusty shadows.

"Keira?"

She wasn't here-or had been for sometime. The steady, perpetual apprehension grew. Something did not feel right. Fist curled, she strode out. Re-emerging from the cabin an overcast, thick and churning hung over head and the wind whipped viciously.

Laz mounted her horse and headed back towards the Midcopse.

* * *

The portrait of Keira Metz was rolled out and splayed open onto a table for Laz's small audience to see. They gathered around within the local tavern, glancing between the parchment and its owner, looking for similarities surely. They wouldn't find any.

"Have you seen this woman about?" She pointed to the drawing. 

A yellow-toothed man with wisps of hair left on his head gazed at the placid expression capable of capturing Keira's aloof likeness.

"Ah, that's the witch." He nodded, unaware of Laz's narrowing glare, who held great disdain for such affront. "I haven't seen her for some months actually."

"Where's the last you saw her?" she pressed, speaking quickly. "And don't say her home. I just came from there."

A younger lad stepped up to peer at the portrait. His hands were stained black from soot, as was his face and he wore an equally singed apron; a smithy's boy.

"Last I heard, she was helping a witcher," the younger man said. "He came one day when we was out by her cabin, begging for help. Our sow had fallen ill. She sent us away. After that, I nae see her or the witcher, but there was an awful bout of ruckus on Fyke Isle not long after. Thundering, flashes uh lights. All sorts uh uncommon occurrences."

"I 'member," the elder said, peering up at her with a timeworn squint. "I thought twas uh brewing storm, but nae a cloud in sight."

"Fyke Isle?" Laz repeated. Keira had made several mentionings of it. It housed a tower and laboratory, perhaps….

Laz snatched the parchment and was out the door.

While the wind clawed at her cloak, Laz rode her mount on a hard gallop towards the shores. Her steed locked its legs in a halt, digging fissures through the soft sand as it abruptly stopped short of the lapping waves. A body of water separated the mainland from the isle. Giving no other options and with panic fraying her senses, she landed softly from a dismount and began peeling away her cloak and gloves frantically.

She plunged into the water and swam the rest of the way.

Soaked to the bone but undeterred, Laz crawled like an stricken animal out of the icy depths and onto Fyke Isle shores. Sloshing through, she broke free of the water and sprinted toward the tower gates. Steam rolled off her shoulders and sodden clothes, breath coming as a small gusts of fog from each heavy pant.

Laz saw her the moment she breached the entrance.

Strewn across the ground, like a broken doll, was Keira Metz.

The air in Laz's lung went out. The roaring wind softened, as if too surprised by the startling discovery.

_But somehow, she knew._

She felt something in during the oncoming weeks, the night before, and the morning she left for Velen.

Leaving Midcopse, leaving her foster mother, meant no protection remained. Something had happened. Something terrible, reprehensible on every account.

The ground moved beneath her, the proximity between her and Keira shrank. She was moving, drawing closer though she did not feel her legs working, only the cold despair that held her heart and lungs in a tight, ruthless fist.

Squeezing, squeezing, squeezing...

Her boot caught a rock and she sank to her knees next to Keira's, hands hovering, afraid to touch, afraid to believe that what she was seeing  _was real_  and not an illusion.

Like the many years before, it was just Laz and Keira.

The wind held its breath, the trees leaned over the ruined fortress walls, listening.

Rigid from death's hold, half eaten by carrion birds and other horrid creatures that came to sate their fill with the flesh of Laz's only family, Keira's remains were a ghastly sight. Her lips and cheeks were eaten away, revealing a harsh, skeletal smile. Dirt, blood, and exposure stiffened her straw-blonde hair. She wore her favorite dress, far too revealing and impractical for Velen's climate, but it never seemed to bother her.

"K-Keira," Laz's teeth chattered. It hurt addressing the dead, as if muttering her name and given no response meant she was truly gone. It was not an illusion.

Finally, she braved a touch, prodding the stiff corpse like a child rousing their parent awake. Keira did not open her eyes. A pair of insectile antennas poked out between her teeth, then the entire centipede emerged, crawling over her pale chin.

Reality sank a sharp dagger between her ribs, and just as painful. She swatted the bug away, pulling the dead sorceress into her lap to cradle her. The emotions were unbearable.

Trembling from the cold, from the icy ache in her heart, Laz drew a deep breath and screamed until her voice broke.

A flock of blackbirds scattered from the tree tops and fled into the bleak, gray sky.

She screamed again, and again, and again until her throat scoured and tang of blood sat on her tongue. Then she wept quietly.

The clouds surrendered and it began to drizzle.

Keira had taught her everything. From alchemy, to simple magic, to even the art of being a woman. But most of all, she gave Lazarus of Everheart, orphaned after the death of her natural mother, a Gift and a Name. A second chance.

Cold and lifeless in her arms, Laz held Keira close, despite the fetor of decay and cold, clammy skin. Her hands were destroyed, nails chipped, palms gouged. Hands that had once stroked Laz to sleep, caressed her awake for breakfast. Hands that had picked berries and tossed them into the air so that Laz could catch them in her mouth.

She wept, rocking back and forth, holding Keira firmly against her chest. The devastation, the despair, the anger-fueled adrenaline heightened her sense of smell and hearing. The Gift subdued most of it, but if Laz wanted to, she could surrender to the call.

She needed to, for the emotions were too strong to handle.

From a distance, over the beaches crawling with drowners, over a water hag blathering incessantly as she sought shelter from the rain, through the wind that rattled the bared trees like bones, a lone howl rose.

* * *

Wiping her tears, Laz was not done mourning the loss of Keira Metz, but she could not remain on Fyke Isle forever. Toussaint was still her destination and if she put enough distance between her and this place of death, the better. Perhaps find a suitable place to bury Keira even. Velen had a harsh, starving landscape. Not the place for a beloved mother to rest eternally.

In the meantime, Laz took the time to investigate the area. The least she could do was attempt to understand what happened. No alderman or other humans would make an effort against a sorceress. They were too superstitious, but in great numbers, they could pose a problem. As far as humans were concerned, a dead 'witch' was a good witch.

Picking up Keira's hands, Laz scanned the injuries. Deep slices inflicted all parts of Keira's limbs and torso. Shoulders, her flanks, legs and there were defense wounds along her hands where she attempted to ward off her attacker.

Laz snorted, trying to breathe through the medley of harsh smells and concentrate. No local of Midcopse had the galls to approach Keira with ill-intent. Nor did they have a chance surviving such an ordeal. Not to mention, most saw the sorceress as a blessing. Someone to turn to when ailments lingered and heartache did not heal. She was revered and respected, her Keira. Despite the village's fickleness, they always came back around and sought her favor once again.

Perhaps it was a scorned lover? Even the most exalted sorceress had foibles. Keira wasn't impervious. Power obtained through brave men was her folly. More times than Laz liked to admit, Keira used her body to manipulate others. A strong knight, or wealthy merchant passing through. If Keira saw an opportunity to take advantage with much to gain in the long haul, she would make it happen. Its efficacy was unfathomable.

Fresh tears burned the corner of Laz's eyes as she counted the inflictions and wounds. A sword of some sort had done this to her and its wielder knew precisely where to strike for mortal devastation, but why? It had to have been the work of an expert, though no such man or woman lived in Midcopse.

Left undisturbed and still hung across her frame was Keira's satchel. Laz slipped her hand in and pulled out a stack of parchments. Most the of papers were written in a language she wasn't familiar with, though one or two words stood out, she still couldn't read Elven runes. There was also several withered Dwarf ideograms and a bust sketching of an unfamiliar man, titled  _Geralt of Rivia_.

She placed the picture at the top of the stack and studied it. Long-haired, rugged with a short beard. Another one of Keira's interest. His hair fell to his shoulders, and a scar ran brow to cheekbone over his left eye.

Laz brought the picture closer to discern if she were actually seeing vertical-slitted pupils, like a cat's. She was not mistaken. Behind the man's broad shoulder jutted two ornate pommels and hilts. A tell-tale sign:

_A witcher._


	3. White as the Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lazarus buries Keira and sheds some light on her affliction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter contains gore

Stuffing the parchments back into Keira's satchel, Laz set out for a boat that could take them back to the mainland. In short, there were none and thus, she had to resort to other means.

Exploring the isle's structure, she found curtains that could be used to swaddle the corpse. After that, she worked quickly fashioning a raft made of driftwood and rotten planks. With little consideration, Laz knew Velen would not be a suitable resting place. It was a barren wasteland. The earth hard-packed and the thicket was infested with ghouls eager to unearth a soft grave and devour a fresh corpse, even if Laz wasn't sure how long Keira had been dead.

No, she would wait days, or weeks until the ground settled and hardened until the smell of carrion faded if it meant keeping unruly creatures from Keira. Unfortunately, time to return home was already straining her employment. Hawks, the tavern owner, did not favor Laz in the least.

At any rate, she'd made this trip with the intention to convince the sorceress to return with her, so it was only fitting that that remains the plan. Toussaint in its endless bloom and perpetual warmth was to be her final resting place. Albeit, traveling alone was certainly one thing. Traveling with a dead body was entirely another. Nonetheless, Laz made her decision.

The raft came easily and remained afloat when she pushed it into the water. Plunging back into the shocking-cold lake, she swam to the mainland with Keira in tow where her mare awaited upon the shore.

Like a fragile treasure, she laid the swaddled Keira across the saddle then mounted, saddened but determined. Pulling the corpse into her lap, Laz cradled Keira with one arm and held the reins with the other.

"Let's go, Luna."

She heeled the horse and they headed back to Toussaint in a slow canter.

* * *

By the time Laz reached her destination, she was battered and windblown. The fetor of Keira's decay attracted all unsightly and unforthcoming varieties without an end. Armed with only a small hunting knife and the vigorous speed of her horse, they made it back to the sanctuary of Toussaint by the skin of their teeth.

Exhausted, Laz dismounted first then pulled the swaddled figure off next. It slid free, colliding into Laz's chest with more force than she anticipated, unable to staunch the dead weight, her knees buckled and both collapsed onto the ground in an ungraceful heap.

Bystanders watched curiously as both the smell and the display snagged their attention.

"What on Lebioda's earth is that odor?" A noblewoman gasped, shielding her nose with a delicate hand. Tired, starving, reeking herself, the last thing Laz wanted to hear whining amidst her plight. Fury unfurled like a rapidly blooming flower.

"If smells are so foul to you," Laz hissed, pinned to the flagstone. "Then leave the harbor!" The air was a constant rife of dead fish and washed up seaweed. It was actually a surprise she smelled Keira at all.

"Miss Lazarus, would you like some help?" A local man offered, frowning as Laz rolled Keira off.

"No," she huffed, rising to dust herself. Stiffened and achy, her legs practically trembled under their own weight. "It's my duty, Pierre, but thank you."

She spent the rest of the day fetching a rickshaw, cleaning Keira's ruined corpse, and redressing her in proper garbs. The tavern was closed in the meantime, allowing her quiet solace to mourn her dear mother without song and dance thundering below. Also, she truly did not want an earful from Hawks.

When nightfall arrived, the rickshaw waited outside at the bottom of the stairs. Keira was ready to be buried.

Exiting from the back door of the tavern, Laz pulled the wagon eastward, across the town under the concealing night and passed Metinna Gate, until she arrived at Mere-Lachaiselongue cemetery. A steep path wound the hillside, the groaning wagon wheels softened by the thick grass. Drifting around like silent stars fireflies floated on the night's breeze under a clear sky. She was thankful for the gentle breeze that cooled the uncomfortable heat that claimed Laz's already aching frame.

A sword hung from her hip while both hands towed the rickshaw. The hood over her head fell back, revealing the crown of pale hair, white as the moon.

The winding path reached the graveyard grounds, breaking from its smooth terrain into shallow hills crested with shady trees, broken tombstones, and thick, tangling roots. Vines and other climbing flora latched onto the stone markings like mourning families, refusing to release their loved ones into the afterlife. Fitting, for neither was Laz prepared to accept the loss of her dearest Keira.

Atop a small notch of earth that overlooked the sparkling lake and a breathtaking view of the glowing castle from the left, Laz found a suitable spot. She unbuckled the sword belt from her waist, setting aside it, then positioned Keira on the soil. Someone before her had used the spot for a small fire between a moss-covered log and squatting boulder.

Working in the dark, Laz fumbled the tie of her tunic, loosening it, and began to undress. Her cambric blouse, stained with dirt, sweat, and identifiable fluids was neatly folded and placed on a fallen log. Her trousers came shortly after, then her undergarments until she stood stark naked in the Toussaint night. The chorus of crickets sang to the stars and the warm air tickled her skin. Fireflies winked between trees, landing on nearby flowers.

Like a lover, the night's clement air was an inviting kiss. It cooled the sweat along her chest and lower back. A pleasant shiver traced her spine like a delicate caress.

_The night..._

It called to her, warming her blood and stirring a deep, longing in her belly. It kissed her neck with warm lips, touched her between her sensitive thighs. The longing was almost too much, but the desire that proceeded this moment was an illusion. Like everything else that made up Lazarus.

She answered, surrendering to dark lure like she'd done many, many times before.

The pain slammed into her like hammer's blow.

She doubled over as spasm wrought through her, then fell onto her hands and knees, gasping, choking. Her lungs fluttered and crushed forcing the air out until she gaped vainly for breath. Clutching the earth in a white-knuckled grip, a convulsion arched her back, re-adjusting each bony landmark down her spine with a ghastly ripple. Laz could not scream out in agony, she had to swallow it, choke on it as it bled a deep red from her mouth and nose. With a trembling hand, she reached around and raked her nails against her flank, drawing gashes through her flesh. Pale bristle revealed itself within the wound. Another convulsion snapped her arms in half, dropping her into the dirt.

She inhaled a wet, quivering note. Reaching again over a dislocated shoulder, she dug her nails, tearing more flesh, revealing more pale bristle. Her claws worked decisively, unheeded, in spite of the blinding agony that consumed every inch of her frame. A vest of fur poked through the self-inflicted wounds along her ribcage and chest as she tore more pulp and ribbons of flesh. The knuckles of her hands split, cracking her fingers into broken segments until large claws emerged. Her face bulged in a gag dripping of blood and broken teeth, an internal force pushing to break free. Teeth fell into the soil as the flesh split until a white muzzle punched through her human mouth in a wet, bloody squelch. A deep groan, softened by clenched canines as long as fingers, rumbled from a great chest. A slow death consumed Lazarus until all that remained was a large wolf.

The hind legs shook one by one, sloughing away the human remnants, standing over the grisly chrysalis that was once Lazarus Metz, enchanted daughter to Keira Metz of Carreras. It shook as any wet canine would, throwing a red mist off from its coat before turning its attention towards the pile of warm meat previously shed. It lapped at the blood and sniffed the intestine, nudging the deflated lungs, and then, ate all the remains, leaving a broken skull crowned in blood-matted hair upon the soil. Once the gore was cleaned away, it refocused on its current task: digging.

It dug and dug some more. Flinging dirt as all four paws tore eagerly until a deep and suitable grave formed a few hours later. Emerging from the dark depths in a single, graceful leap, the massive wolf gentle nudged Keira's slack figure into the yawning hole. In with her went Laz's misshapen skull. The grave would be unmarked, sans its position by a log and a boulder, overlooking the lake between a small red house and the quintessential palace in the west.

With its mistress buried, one ale-gold eye and a pale hazel both shining in the moonlight, it packed and combed the earth into place. When finished, it sat on its haunches with a grunt, taking with it a heavy heart and woeful memory of the last moment it'd ever see Keira again. It'd only been a pup when she found it, loved it, and gave it a Gift and a Name:

Lazarus Metz, enchanted daughter to Keira Metz of Carreras, sorceress, and mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had I known I needed Keira near the end of the game, I certainly would have spared her. Alas, I did not because she seduced my poor Geralt, took advantage of him, and was quite a jerk. 
> 
> Also, I credit the gory inspiration on Brian McGreevy's book "Wise Wolf" which was fashioned into a Netflix series called, "Hemlock Grove"


	4. Tesham Mutna

Deep baritones carried across the cool, unobstructed air by which walls should have intervened and muffled. Far too clear and concise, an animal confusion furrowed Laz's brow as sleep receded slowly. Songbirds amid their early chorus seemed to hover directly above her, instead of coming from her opened window of to the right of her bed. The voices continued, neither tenor or dialect local, but her residency at Toussaint was not of great length. Many like herself traveled to the fairytale land, so neither sounding like locals meant no significance.

Laz rolled onto her back, expecting a softer bed than the bracken and underbrush that stabbed her naked frame. Her eyes snapped open, staring directly at the early dawn and the vibrant green canopy overhead where the birds alighted from branch to branch.

 _I'm not in my room,_ she realized at once,  _One the second floor of the tavern._ Tombstones jutted uneven through the undulating hillside in the graveyard.  _I'm still at the cemetery!_ her thoughts reeled.  _I'm naked!_

Jarred awake, she shot up, glancing about. Finding her clothes, she dressed as quickly as her sore limbs allowed, while scouring the woods should she need to make a dash for the shrubs or even the lake a few paces away.

This was nothing usual for Laz to awake in unknown places, but remaining at the grave until dawn was not intended. Fortunately, she'd revert back, or perhaps it was just quieter to cry as a human than to howl as a large wolf until dawn. At any rate, it was no less unsettling to stumble upon a wolf of such measure as it was to cross a carcass with a naked woman sprawled across it. However…

She glanced down and around, searching for the proverbial nest of blood and bones that usually provided as a bed in such circumstances. Her skin was chapped and stiffened with dried blood, but her grisly pelt was nowhere within sight. If there were a way to recollect the hours lost as a wolf, it had yet to be discovered.

Laz pressed closely to a tree when the conversation drifted closer. Ears pricked, eyes sharps. Nowhere amongst the broken tombs and statues could she find them, or even hear their footsteps, just their voices.

Perhaps she was listening to a discussion far beyond the grave. It would make sense considering she couldn't narrow down the sources, plus she  _was_ in a cemetery.

Shoving on her tall boots and tiptoeing through the trees, she stopped just the moment before she revealed herself. Two men ducked into the entranceway of a noble's mausoleum. She caught a glimpse of white hair and two swords strapped to a broad back, but the bottom half of his head was shaved, the rest was pulled into a small ponytail.

Immediately, the witcher portrait she found came to mind. Two swords. There  _was_ a witcher summoned by the duquessa herself in Toussaint, but that wasn't enough to be a coincidence, plus the portrait had longer hair? No, certainly there were more witchers out in all corners of the world.

 _But, what if….?_  A tiny voice whispered.

From her own scarce knowledge, the witcher guild was rare, and in some ways, dying even. With that in mind, perhaps he was familiar with the portrait, knew the man, trained with him? It was worth investigating. The worst he could say was  _No, go away._

The door shut. She quietly edged closer. It was for certain  _this_  witcher was the very one the duchy requested, but why was he in the cemetery? Was that normal for a witcher to do? Laz didn't know. It wasn's a  _normal_ thing for her to do, but who was she to set the standards? Keira was quite fond of a witcher, actually;  _Geralt of Rivia_. Laz glowered at the mere thought of the man. Who knew her infatuation would also be her demise? The irony was not lost either. The sorceress used men to her advantage until ultimately, her practices turned on her.

She pressed her ear against the surface and listened. The muffled voices vibrated through deep tenors. Trying the latch, it gave and the heavy door whined open.

She froze, heart in throat. 

The conversation went on uninterrupted and she relaxed. Their accents were certainly not of Toussaint and no nobleman or woman belonging to the court had any business being here, in a cemetery, at the early hours of dawn. They did not belong here, Laz surmised.

Pulling the door wider, she took a tentative step across the threshold, crunching bits of stone beneath her boot. The clandestine discussion, more distinct now, continued.

"A torture chamber was thus outfitted in the dungeons of Tesham Mutna," said a deep smooth tenor not belonging to any local dialect. "Inside it, a cage made entirely of a special alloy of silver, dalvinite, and meteorite steel. Khagmar was captured and locked in the cage. Sat there over two centuries, driven to fury time after time, never able to escape. Thus I know the cage will withstand the fury to which we shall drive my humble being."

"See no reason to dawdle," said a rougher voice. " Tesham Mutna. Take me there."

"One last thing." There was a pause.

Laz strained her keen ears. A small cork squeaked and the tinker of a dropped vial followed. A metallic tang mixed amid the earthy mildew.

"What was that?"

"Blood," the smoother voice rasped, "The last favor the raven did me. I've also taken some sangurium, a solution that sharpens one's sense of smell. One drop of blood shall smell like a gallon to me."

"You crazy? You're a recovering addict!"

_Vampires._

Fear leaped into Laz's throbbing heart.

Since Knight errants were washing ashore in pieces, as Ygritte mentioned, enlisting a professional―a witcher―was the duchy's only chance at preventing another fatality. That said, a witcher's arrival could have surely been during Laz's departure, which had been nearly a month ago. So did the Beast of Beauclair―as it was coined―still seize the city in fear? The fact that the witcher was  _still_  Toussaint, meant the creature had yet to be captured and slain. It was very likely the culprit to the grisly slayings was a vampire, very likely indeed. But Laz knew so little about them and their morbid signature. Laz couldn't tell the difference between one pile of skat from the next, much less what was responsible for hacking up the citizens of Toussaint.

Slowly, Laz stepped away from the entrance. She needed to warn the royal court, the duchess that the beast still plagued the lands, and that it was likely a vampire.

But the witcher… Weren't they trained to kill these very abominations? Furthermore, he was  _accompanying_ the vampire, conversing like comrades even. And it wasn't like he was ignorant.  _The vampire just drank blood in front of him._ None of this made any sense.

Still weak from her previous shift, if she had the strength to change, she would have then waited out in the Caroberta woods till sundown.

 _Sundown.._. she paused, glancing over her shoulder towards the very well lit path they roamed.

Had they not just strolled past her not moments ago, in broad daylight….?

 _But vampires…_ Confusion and conflict roused her senses in a tumultuous bind. None of this made any sense. More importantly, what was going on here? Why wasn't the witcher out hunting for the killer instead of reprimanding his friend for being a blood-drinking vampire?

Once again, there were more questions and absolutely  _no answers._ No wonder so many held hard disdain for witchers. Not only were they greedy, but they took too long performing the job.

Laz was just seconds from bolting when they spoke again.

"Wait," the rough voice suddenly said. "My medallions humming."

"I sense it, too." said the other.

A sword hissed free from its scabbard.

" _Someone's here."_

* * *

Like a shot arrow, Laz was gone, racing through the trees, over the slopes, and grave markings. Even slipping into the creek in a moment of ungrace before she picked herself back up, drenched and all, and continued towards the palace. She wanted speed but turning to the wolf would bring the proverbial crosshairs onto her. May even mistake  _her_ for the Beast of Beauclair if they stumbled upon the wolf and her human remains. Nonetheless, she hadn't the strength and it was broad daylight.

Guards halted her at the gate before she could get any closer to the palace. This was usually as far as anyone got.

"Careful now." One warned, stalling her efforts with armored plates and broad shoulders that blocked her path.

"I must speak to Her Grace!" Laz shouted, rattling their plates as she fought to slip past them.

"Our Illustrious Duchess is not conducting any audiences until high noon. Please return during the allotted time."

"Fine!" she huffed furiously. Her hand shot out and gripped the firm collar of his chest plate, yanking him down enough until they saw eye to eye. "But it concerns the Beast of Beauclair!" Her voice trembled, "And if you don't allow me see the Duchess, by nightfall, the town of Toussaint will be drowning in blood!"

His hard eyes narrowed then he nudged her back, her steps stuttering to right themselves against the stones.

"High noon, do not make us escort you off the palace grounds."

Then there was only one solution: Laz would tend to the vampire herself.

At Tesham Mutna.

* * *

Beneath the spray of stars, she followed the witcher and his co-conspirator closely and without detection. Beyond the undulated hills covered in the moonlight, Tesham Mutna revealed itself. Being too far, she could not hear the casual discussion between men, and their identity could not yet be solved. Any closer and she risked being discovered and ran off, or worse killed, hacked up, and then dumped into the river.

Cresting the top of a shallow hill nearby, Laz leaned forward and planted her hands upon her knees to rest. Winded, hungry, and achy. Not amicable conditions for such a risky operation but what was she to do, wait around? Watch the very paradise she trekked miles to find only for it to succumb to fang and claw overnight?

The men paused at the mouth of the fortress in time for Laz to get into a closer position. With her keens eye, she watched and did her damnedest to listen, but they spoke too softly. The witcher's hair was stark white, much like Laz's but he smelled nothing like her, for what that was worth, for she didn't even know what she was. His build was lean and towering, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist vested in jerkin and mail. Belts crossed his back where both the ornate scabbards hung side by side. The pommels of both hilts glinted silver in the bright moon. Each stride was measured and purposeful. He was confident. No wonder Keira liked witchers.

The other man, few inches shorter in stature, sported shorter, grizzled hair and wore a long, black doublet that stopped just past his waist with dark slacks. When he turned his head, she spotted tufts of facial hair―mutton chops―along his jawline. Assuming the witcher wasn't a vampire, that could only mean the slender, darkly dressed counterpart was the blood drinker. 

They stopped before a crumbling wall draped in vines. The grizzled-haired placed a hand on the stone and as if prompted by a soft incantation, a flash of runes glared red and an opening in the stone revealed itself.

As soon as they stepped in, Laz hurried up the hillside, but not in time. The moment she hauled herself over a large broken wall, the doorway and both men were gone.

"Shit," Laz panted, sagging against the rock. She surveyed the fortress ruins that surrounded her, perhaps there was another exit.

There was not. No matter how high she crawled, or thorough she searched the foothills, she could not find an alternative entrance and ended up circling the ruins multiple times in vain.

Defeated and tired, she perched upon the same fallen wall to catch her breath when a shadow flew by, then two shadows and a third. More indiscernible writhing slivers of black wove through the runes like hungry wraiths until a massive, snarling creature landing directly beside her, buckling the stone beneath her posterior. It tossed her from the stone and onto the hard-packed earth before it launched itself back into the air.

It was clear now as they all closed in.

Rotfiends, scurvers, ghouls―and the most aggressive bat-like-creature she'd ever seen―crawled across the fallen ruins. Hordes of shrieking, howling fiends came racing out of the thicket, straight for Tesham Mutna. Pinned between running for her life but curious as to why they were not attacking her, despite her being in plain sight, Laz foolishly decided to follow them. The wolf would protect her; that much she knew. It couldn't be a coincidence with both man and monsters converging at the ruins of Tesham Mutna, a place of not only death and decay but unspeakable horrors. She wouldn't put it past being haunted.

Several of the monsters broke up into multiple directions. She kept a close tracking on a gargling, lurching entity that smelled as inviting as a dead horse while it sought its way towards a tunnel; a tunnel she hadn't seen until  _now._

It stopped before entering the dark maw and sniffed the air. Whatever it sought, it found and scurried quickly into the hillside that led beneath the haunted ruins.

Hesitating at the mouth of the tunnel, a shiver caressed her spine as she listened to the noises coming from the bowels of Tesham Mutna.

The witcher and the vampire were in there, and an unfathomable register of monsters were on their way.

Oh, but the curiosity was overwhelming.

The wolf would protect her, she assured herself, then stepped into the darkness.


	5. Axii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laz's curiosity puts her in a bind and onto the witcher's to-do list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Easily one of my favorite moments on Witcher. This fight scene, the music, and the noises Regis' was making!

The bowels of Tesham Mutna filled quickly with every imaginable creature Geralt had encountered. All lured by the bait placed strategically at the mouth of each tunnel, they flooded into the dim confines in swarms. From towering fleders, choking rotfiends and spikey scurvers; to even a lesser vampire, a gangly katakan. There was nothing skittering, bounding, or stalking across the flagstone unknown to Geralt.

With every cut, hack, and rend the witcher inflicted, more blood spilled. Regis roared in throes of agony. By his suspended cage, his fervid efforts sent the confinement swinging upon its hinges which caused Geralt to frequently glance and pray its integrity held, despite the vampire's assurance. If Regis happened to break free, there was no other option when dealing with a higher vampire than to flee.

Nonetheless, Geralt managed and bounded back as a rotfiend exploded in a morbid spray of rotten body parts and congealed blood. The force shoved a ghoul back before it caught its footing and charged back into the fray. The katakan vanished, only to re-emerge at the same time a fleder slammed into the stone, knocking both tall creatures off-kilter.

Geralt sprang to the side, evading a blow and parrying with his sword. A dismembered claw careened through the air. Another creature screamed, swiping with talons covered with its own rancid blood. Regis lowed gutturally, yanking against his bindings and extending his sharp claws.

Always moving, parrying, evading, the witcher pirouetted out of the path of ghoul. He brought his sword down and across, decapitating the head of another creature mid-lunge. Its head careened through the air before tumbling across the floor. The first creature flew passed, tripping over itself and sprawling before the mouth of a tunnel. Turning, Geralt formed the Sign of Aard, shoving it further into the dark maw just as he ducked as the lone fleder to make it to the Tesham Mutna dungeon party tried to grapple his shoulders. Catching only air, it shrieked its frustration before charging towards its darting prey a second time.

He swung the blade up and cut quickly and cleanly from loin to throat. The flesh split open, innards gushing out-

A woman's scream interrupted all cacophony at once.

As it continued, overwhelming the dungeon upon a deafening note, it deepened, warping into a loud unworldly, demonic roar; the sudden report caused multiple beings, including Geralt, to glance towards the black wall it derived.

From a tunnel entrance lunged a massive blur of white Geralt feared was a sickly-thin mare. A helpless ghoul struggled from its jaw by the neck, then the beast thrashed its head like a dog in an element of play. Not at all a malnourished mare, Geralt realized,  _a wolf._

The ghoul's neck snapped instantly, limbs slackened and flailed as it was slung side to side.

Geralt lunged away when a scurver coughed and hacked before exploding in dangerous projectiles. A rotten foot flew off, smacking the katakan in the head the moment it materialized. It shrieked in anger and swiped at the fleder. Another ghoul bumped into the new arrival after slipping on a pool of blood. The wolf reacted with a flash of teeth and snarls. Half a beat later, the dungeon returned into a churning maelstrom of monsters, white wolves, and flashing silver.

The forgotten eviscerated fleder fell to its knees then slumped onto the floor, dead. Geralt could see he was not far off with his initial suspension, but it was certain; even dire wolves did not normally come in  _that_  size.

Still playing with its newest toy, it pinned the ghoul to the floor with a large paw and pulled, ripping and tearing the creature apart, spitting out the foul meat before moving to the next victim: another unsuspecting rotfiend standing too close. Geralt side-stepped a blow, hacking limbs, chopping heads, keeping a watchful eye on Regis whose continuous howls and screams flooded the dwelling with the rest of the clamor until…

All that remained was the white wolf and the witcher.

They faced each other. Both dripping in blood, tired, and enraged.

Throughout the battle, they hadn't crossed paths, seemingly avoiding each other, until now.

"C'mon," he egged, unfazed by the stark blood slathering from a white muzzle as it stalked the dungeon's perimeter. He'd seen worse, killed worse, beheaded more frightening things than a dire wolf that rivaled the size and stature of a starved horse.

It peeled its lips back into a snarling smile and traced the perimeter with measured steps, mirroring the witcher's advances. It seemed with every move Geralt made, so made the wolf.

 _Clever,_  he thought.  _Or sentient?_

A scream ripped through the vampire, tearing Geralt's eyes upwards. He glanced back to the wolf, but it was also looking at Regis, and not in the way it should. Perhaps it was the throw of the shadows dancing within the dim chamber, but Geralt was a witcher; he saw everything.

And he saw the wolf perk an eyebrow.

It was no ordinary animal intrigue either. The snarl fell slowly, its head even tilted to right, then left, and right again. It was trying to understand, to make sense of it all, especially the thrashing man in a hanging cage.

Geralt didn't relax his defensive stance even if the wolf was too curious and now held no interest in him to any degree.

"Hey!" Geralt barked.

It looked at him. Curious eyes set in a long, white lupine face and black snout framed in red.

"Sit."

It sat.

Regis choked on his cries, snarling and throwing himself against the binds.

"Hold on," Geralt turned, "I'll let you out."

Sheathing his blade, he turned and released the lever suspending the cage. The chains rattled, lowering the iron entrapment to the flagstone with a hard clank, jostling its fevered contents. The wolf stood and backed away.

"Sit."

It sat, but reluctantly, glancing between Geralt and Regis while lowering its head to sniff discreetly.

Pulling his hunting knife free, he cut into Regis' palm. The higher vampire was in a feral mood, face twisted in a fierce, snarling visage hardly resembling the gentle barber-surgeon before. He hissed when the sharp blade bit into his palm, cutting through his glove with ease. Paying little mind to the hisses and snarls, Geralt collected the blood beneath the wound as it dripped liberally on the waiting vial and floor.

"Now we wait," he muttered, pocketing the vial.

Looking back at the wolf, they exchanged glances of obvious intrigue. He took a step back. Its ears perked up and,...its large bushy tail flopped timidly

"C'mere," Geralt turned away from the cage and approached the beast cautiously. As he neared, he almost had to look up, they saw eye to eye even with its sitting posture. A soft whine rose from its chest when he reached out.

"Easy," he cooed. "Easy. I'm not going to hurt you."

He formed his fingers into the Axii sign, just in case. The spell caught and the wolf twitched then blinked into a placated lull.

Artificially relaxed, it yawned, displaying its sharp teeth and a curled tongue, then lowered itself onto its belly with a tired grunt. Kicking out its hind legs like a pet lounging under the sun, it lowered its massive head onto its paws and struggled to keep its eyes open. Geralt reached, gave it a moment to sniff him and, when it didn't bite, carefully ran his hands over its soft fur, rubbed behind an ear larger than his entire hand, and combed down its raised hackles.

"A dire wolf," the witcher muttered to himself. That would explain its size, but not its eerie keenness, almost human-like.

It rolled onto its side, still sedated by Axii and quite content with the gentle ministrations. He stroked its side and it responded by lifting its leg, exposing a vulnerable belly. Geralt gave it a scratch and the leg kicked at the air.

It was nothing to fear. Just an animal lured by the scent and ruckus beneath Tesham Mutna, and nothing more. The witcher concluded his attention with a soft pat and returned to kneel before the caged Regis. Both wolves went to sleep.

Geralt woke the first time when a cold, wet nose nudged his temple, then a warm tongue lap the rough texture of his cheek. He leaned away, refusing to open his eyes, as the wolf maneuvered around sniffing the leftover corpses and limbs scattered across the floor. He heard the rasping of its tongue against the flagstone and the gentle drafts of air from its sweeping tail, before moving away, across Tesham Mutna's dungeon for more things to sniff and lick.

Geralt slipped back into meditation.

When he woke the second time, Regis was haggard but normal, and the dire wolf was gone.

* * *

Sometime later, they reached the Mere-Lachaiselongue Cemetery. Regis, braced against Geralt's supporting frame, faltered down the buckled steps into the subterranean mausoleum, paled and in pain. Nearly incapacitated from the event, he plopped onto his bed tucked in a corner with a wince. Geralt gathered the necessary ingredients to commence the brewing.

Still, the screams and lows of agony played like a mantra in the witcher's thoughts. The immense amount of torture at the cost of residual memories was utterly unnecessary. Had Geralt known, had Regis warned him, an alternative method could have been conjured. Geralt had seen Regis die a time before and once was enough. 

The witcher shook his head in silence, remembering the horrible sound Regis made as he was ripped apart, far too close to the sounds he issued trapped in the cage. There was no point in arguing with the barber-surgeon, especially if he already knew the answer.  _Debts._ And to the Beast of Beauclair, no less. 

"Any better?" Geralt asked while he dusted his hands over the kettle.

Regis cleared his hoarse throat. It seemed he hadn't the energy to even speak. "Far from ideal and some time must pass before I fully recover," he said,"But yes, a bit better. Thank you."

The witcher lowered his eyes, accessing Regis' evident distress.

"Where's your other glove?" he asked.

Regis glanced down at the pale hand pressed against his side, imperceptibly shrugging. "A wolf took it, tore it off my hand. But it was ruined," he sighed, recalling the knife. "I did not bother to stop it."

Geralt turned back to his task. The duchess made no mention of a wolf, only the Beast of Beauclair, but any sizable beast would soon be detected in time's pass. He couldn't bring the inquiry to the royal court. Should they be unaware of its presence, that would like elicit panic and hysteria. One more contract would fly up, splitting Geralt's efforts in two different directions. Furthermore, he saw it in action; the ripping, tearing, the demonic roar upon which it announced itself. Either it's been in hiding under Tesham Mutna, or walking among them, blending in.

Unless the wolf and Dettlaff worked in conjunction, then Regis would certainly know.

 _"_ So you saw it, too?" Geralt asked. "The wolf?"

"I did," Regis stood wearily to sit at his reading desk. "Certainly an unprecedented discovery during such a chaotic evening. Geralt, what was it?"

The witcher shrugged thoughtfully. "A dire wolf, maybe? But even that is a stretch. It was about the size of Roach."

"And it took my glove."

"Why?"

Now, the higher vampire shrugged pensively. "The fresh blood, I would assume. Vampire blood is very tasty from what I gather."

A large kettle over a gentle fire bubbled fiercely, spitting viscous green flecks against the side. The putrid aroma of the Resonance fouled the air. If by chance Dettlaff and the wolf were a team, with Regis having no knowledge of it, it was likely the Resonance might. Geralt stared at the churning surface, muttering.

"It's ready."


	6. Amnesia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laz tries to recall her efforts at Tesham Mutna and visits Keira's grave. Unable, she makes a decision regarding the witcher and the vampire while straining her relations at the Pheasantry Inn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for TheDoctorShadow, I made it a wee bit longer for you. Thanks for all the bones and kudos :D

Lazarus's bedroom was as silent as a crypt. Having neither stirred, snored, nor dreamed, when she woke she was in the same exact position she normally fell asleep in; face down, smushed against a thin pillow in a puddle of drool with an arm draped over the edge of the bed. Her arm other was tucked beneath her like a chicken wing, holding something in a loose grip.

Blinking sleepily, she lifted her head to look about her small bedroom with little recollection how she'd gotten there. In truth, it was nothing out of the ordinary, though a risky concept nonetheless. Like drunks that black out and find themselves in bed with an unsightly maid or vagrant, such things had yet to happen- _cross her fingers_ -but there were a few times her recovery ended somewhere strange- _like the cemetery_ -and unfavorable- _like being as naked as a newborn._

 _No matter,_ she yawned and smacked her lips, only then tasting the sweet tang along her tongue.

Fully roused, she looked over at that edge of her bed  _knowing._ Knowing that the day would be long, and doggedly painful and tiresome, as each following day from a shift were. Before lifting up, she prepared herself for the protesting joints and inevitable bruising.

Carefully, she rose onto her elbows but was surprised to find no such ache and throb in her bones, then pushed herself up onto her posterior.

She opened the hand which held a cloth.

_A glove?_

Black and finger less, but the edges were frayed as if chewed apart and she could see the brownish-red hue through the sunlight coming from the window. It was damp, perhaps even...suckled?

Curious, she sniffed it and her vision winked black.

_By the gods!_

Biting her lip to stifle any reflexive noises, she buried her face into the glove and inhaled as deeply as her lungs allowed until dizzied. Falling back onto her bed, her naked figure curled into a tight ball, bringing her entire body as close to the source as possible.  _Lust._ It was entirely possible to concoct an elixir or paste that could elicit strong sexual arousal on any who consumed, applied, or inhaled it. Laz knew all too well aphrodisiacs and their potency, but this was nothing like Keira's alchemy or herb mixtures. Nothing like it at all. It made her hungry for things there shouldn't be a hungriness for. 

A soft rapping came from her bedroom door then. Through the floor, the morning din at the Pheasantry came muffled and loud.

 _Shit,_ she realized,  _she was late for work._

Reluctantly parting from the material, she stashed it beneath her pillow and hurried to put on a robe. She felt wholly recovered from both the tiresome journey and her most recent shifts.  _Odd_ , but nonetheless, relieving.

Laz opened her bedroom door to see a peppy Ygritte. The pudgy barmaid smiled broadly, opened her mouth to say something, took a once over at Laz, and blinked with surprise.

"My! You're looking radiant this morning," Ygritte smiled, "How much sleep  _did_ you get?"

"Do I?" Laz glanced down at herself. Sans her feet being dirty, all the carnage she usually awoke in or was stained by, had been washed away in the Seidhe Llygad-at least, that's what she believed. Then there was still that peculiar taste in her mouth and her hair was a bird's nest, but nothing out of the ordinary.

"One of your tonics, perhaps? A beauty regimen!" the barmaid gasped, clutching her plump hands together. "Oh, you must share it with me and Imogen!"

Laz blushed at the mention of her alchemy. She was dreadful at it, but Ygritte was always so supportive.

"Of course," she bluffed. "Please tell Hawks I merely overslept. I'll be right down."

When Ygritte left, Laz discarded her robe and redressed in more fitting dress, then washed her face then rinsed her feet in a small basin, ran a mint paste across her teeth and brushed out the knots in her hair. Before hurrying downstairs, she paused to glance across her room towards the mirror. It was likely Ygritte was trying to build her up before Hawk's chastisement tore her down, or if her claims were mere compliments and nothing else. Then again, she certainly  _felt_ replenished, comparing to all the other times she woke stiff and depleted. Who knew death and rebirth consumed so much energy?

Marching over to the mirror, she glared at the reflection. Her scrutinizing features softened the longer she looked, the longer she realized...

_Ygritte was right._

Laz looked far better than she expected, practically glowing. Her complexion was equal, lacking the perpetual bags and bruises that normally shadowed beneath her eyes, even a blush colored her cheeks pleasantly. She looked younger, less weary, bright-eyed and rested. The splotches from crying had receded, even if the heartache had not. And that was just her physiognomy, whereas her entire anatomical disposition reaped benefits, as well. But  _how?_

Laz gathered her skirts and looked her legs over. Where there were normally bruisings and scrapes, there were none. She flexed her hands, windmilled her arm, jogged around her room in search of an ounce of pain that could prove to her it wasn't out of the ordinary to feel this well.

None.

No aches, or weary joints.

It was as if she hadn't shifted the moment she stepped into the dungeons of Tesham Mutna,  _or ever._

_But how….?!_

Looking back at her unmade bed, she eyed the pillow where, beneath, the glove resided. Crossing the room in two strides, she reached under, grabbed it and pressed the dark folds into her face again. Inhaling, her head swam while her quickened heart fluttered. If she only knew what it was she smelled, perhaps she could… Laz snuffed the idea. If she went out in search of it, it risked exposure and exile.

Or worse; execution. There was already one monster who'd made a name for itself. The last Laz ever wanted was to be found out, discovered, hunted, or enslaved.

Still, the glove was the only thing different about her normal routine. She never brought anything back after a change, nothing to tie her to an event or lead anyone to her. A grating worry churned in her stomach as she racked her brain for answers. The glove; where did it come from? Why did she bring it back with her?  _The smell._ She'd seen wolves rub their faces in carcasses to mask their scent, but this wasn't decay she was smelling. She breathed again, pulling the scent of dark roses, leather, and earth into her lungs until her vision blurred. No, the wolf must have found the scent pleasant just the same, but what kept it from rubbing up against a deer carcass or washed up seaweed? Why this glove? Was it on somebody when she took it?

The brownish-red...

Roses...

The sweet, coppery tang...

Laz's stomach plummeted;  _did she kill someone?_

Suddenly sick, she stuffed it back beneath her pillows and headed downstairs.

After an earful from Hawks, the remainder of the day went by without so much as a puking drunk or disgruntled sailor. Not even Laz's feet were sore from so much walking. But it mattered little. Each time the door to the Pheasantry burst open, Laz feared it was the Ducal guards come to take her and bring her to justice. Even if such terms were difficult to approach, her murdering someone, it must have been out of self-defense. Laz was  _not_ a killer and the only flesh she ate was...Her stomach twisted at the thought. But it was out of necessity. She had to.  _They_ had to in order to protect both the woman and the wolf. If she could only remember her changes, if she could only recall all those hours lost beneath the night sky.

 _Damn this bloody amnesia!_  she cursed inwardly.  _Damn it all!_

As twilight descended, the tavern windows were pushed open to allow the gentle, gloaming winds off Seidhe Llygad to cool the stuffy room.

The patrons of Pheasantry began to empty out. The innkeeper was at the bar drying cleaned earthenware while Laz, Ygritte, Imogen and the rest of the barmaids cleaned up the common areas on both floors. The fire in the large hearth was down to smoldering embers and the invariable clattering of tankards dwindled to soft prattle.

Pausing mid-step, a pleasant shudder caressed Laz from head to toe as she gathered tableware. She blinked, shaking the sensation off, took another step, and a second shudder seized her. Overcome with a flush, the room was suddenly stifling and uncomfortably hot. A swell of nausea bloomed and lodged itself just under her ribs. She stopped and leaned against a nearby wall to give herself a moment to breathe.

"Are you well, Laz?" Ygritte asked from nearby.

"Yes," Laz murmured, thoughtful. "Just...tired, that's all."

"Perhaps you need some fresh air. Take a walk. Imogen and I will finish up here."

When Laz left the inn, the night's cool air  _did_ help. She walked with no particular destination in mind, merely following wherever her feet took her. To little surprise, her destination led her to the cemetery until she arrived at the spot where Keira was buried. It remained untouched from how she last remembered it, sans the dirt which had been padded down by large paws,  _her_ paws. Though the wolf and she were, in a sense, one and the same, she rarely had any recollection of its activity. In truth, it had a mind of its own, but Laz could make heavy suggestions. It'd taken care of Keira like she'd hope.  _They_ took care of Keira, much like she'd taken care of them.

Sinking to her knees onto the softened earth, Laz respired heavily. Mostly to feel the cool air fill her lungs but also to lessen the stabbing heartache, the pressing worry, the surmounting paranoia.

Another shiver seized her then coursed over her chest like a gentle wave, settling deep in the pit of her belly where it settled and throbbed. A flush of heat and desire took home between her thighs, forcing another shudder through Laz until she was breathless. Grimacing for such an inappropriate moment to be aroused, perhaps she was getting under the weather. It happened to rain several times on her return home. With no change of clothes, shelter, or ample rest-due to the incessant attacks brought by Keira's decay- it provided unfavorable conditions for illness. Silly, she knew, but how else could she explain it? The only time she felt needs were when Keira had her drink philters when she was about to change.

At any rate, if she were sick, then this morning's recovery was for naught.  _Another goddamn illusion, most likely_. Perhaps she'd eaten something during her nightly perusing, it was a shame there was no way of telling. Rarely did images come through her dreams, but with that, she had difficulty recognizing what was truly recollection or figments of her imagination.

Laz stretched across the ground to lie next to Keira and stare through the thickets' canopy towards the stars when something brushed her fingers; a corner of parchment jutted out from the loosely packed earth. Laz had buried Keira and whatever items she carried on her person, but she didn't need to see it because she knew exactly what it was.

Lifting onto an elbow, she pulled the corner free, revealing the buried bust drawing found on her mother's remains.

_Geralt of Rivia, witcher._

Fate had no intentions letting her forget.

Laz felt a stirring,  _a wagging tail,_ which she staunched quickly. Her own human intuition and the very primordial instincts formed to survive were not aligned.  _For once._ The very being likely responsible for killing Keira, under any circumstances, did not warrant a pleasant response from Laz, therefore neither should it for the wolf. Even if they came as ideas and thoughts. The animal had its way of sharing its opinion. As did Laz.

"Do you know something I don't?" she spat inwardly to the wolf. It didn't respond with a second thought or idea, it never did. Angered, she crushed the ball of parchment in her hand and glanced over her shoulder.

_There, in the cemetery somewhere, is the vampire's lair._

Perhaps the witcher was there, too?

Her first attempt at Tesham Mutna was an utter failure. She gained nothing from it and lost at least 6 hours of memory which frustrated her thoroughly, even if it was to be expected. Animals don't think, they survive nor were they as cognizant as humans. In truth, it would take a human to approach both witcher and vampire. Otherwise, they'd kill her without a second thought. That, at least, was always Keira's claims and she'd rather be safe than sorry.

 _Would push comes to shove…_?

How much she could get away with by storming into the vampire's lair she wondered? What did a vampire look like? A shrieking, snarling bipedal bat?

But what if push  _does_ come to shove?

If it attacked her, most  _certainly_ she could defend herself. She could shift, tear it apart, and wait until sundown to change back. But how does one slay a vampire? Is it as easy as eating it? Bones, clothing, everything? What of silver stakes, garlic, and decapitation? Truly, she had no idea.

Giving herself a quick once over, there was ample strength and vigor to shift, however, vampire  _or_  witcher, Laz also knew she wasn't cut out for such brazen endeavors. After all, she was just a barmaid who frequently overslept.

Smoothing out the crumbled parchment, she glared once more at the portrait of Geralt of Rivia. The long hair, cat eyes, dual swords. The scar running the length of his face, narrowly missing an eye. Keira saw something in him, something worth admiring and preserving on paper, but what, Laz could not see or understand beyond all the hate and contempt she felt regarding the portrait. Somehow, she knew. Whether by her own human intuition, or the primordial instincts; he was responsible for Keira Metz's death.

Committing every detail to memory, two things were certain:

 _Nothing_ good came from vampires and even worse things came from  _witchers._


	7. A Vampire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laz meets her first vampire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the other half for TheDoctorShadow.
> 
> could you imagine....  
> 4 thousand words in one chapter?? THAT'S TOO MUCH.

Listening within the quiet darkness, she counted her heartbeats. Therein the gloaming thicket, she listened to the cricket's incessant chorus which sang to the quiet lake that gently kissed its shores; to the moon as it whispered her name, calling to her no matter its phases. She was not cursed, not with a Gift and a Name provided by a sorceress mother. They could call her a  _witch_  when her back was turned, but never to Laz's face.

Laz could not help but wonder what Keira would seek to achieve in such circumstances. From the Temerian court halls to the cold and callous terrain of No Man's Land, the sorceress knew every advantage and disadvantage along the spectrum. Just  _secrets._  So many bloody secrets it had Laz seeing double trying to understand Keira and her motives. Sex was a tool, that much was certain, but what else? Why Lazarus?  _How?_  Was she found as a pup from wherever it was she came from? When did Keira decide to try her magic on an animal, turn it into a little girl to watch her grow?

In truth, she had spoiled Laz, giving her whatever she wanted, hardly reprimanding her when she did wrong. Barely a scold, a chastising remark. Never a lesson learned the hard way.

 _Only more and more secrets._ Laz could drown in all the secrets they both shared. It was if Keira stool idle, observing her daughter's behavior with an almost experimental curiosity.

It was difficult discerning which was worse; knowing or not her origin. Where did she come from? Lazarus of  _Everheart._ Where did such a place exist? Did it? Or was it another one of Keira's many secrets, many spell-cast illusions?

Between frustration and despair, Laz wasn't sure if anger was the right response to Keira's death... The secrets were now buried forever. Laz would not live forever, at least, she didn't believe so but if she could, Keira would know. And Keira did not live forever as she'd hoped.

A gentle wind picked up, shushing the treetops, accompanying the nightly songs, and bringing with it... _a wonderful smell..._

Before Laz could think or consider, she was on her feet rushing, hurdling over stones, and felled trees until she was deep into the cemetery. Little motes of light drifted past her, fireflies blinking lazily, hiding in the trees, floating around her crown of white hair. Scanning the thick darkness, she tried to stifle her excitement, but could not. Her breathing was too heavy. Her eyes wide, blue and gold, searching, searching, searching...

The glove. It smelled like the glove, but much, much stronger.

Abandoning a small vigil's candlelight, she followed her nose, knowing exactly where it would lead her: the mausoleum where she first found the witcher and the vampire.

_Blood, roses, a fresh grave._

Stopping short before the structure, she took a deep breath and attempted to calm down. Her heart was hammering. Every nerve ending from the top of her head down to her toes tingled.

Closing in on the door, she pressed an ear to the surface and listened.

No voices.

No sounds at all.

Depressing the latch, the heavy door yielded with an eerie whine. Laz bit her lip, wincing as it drew wide enough to slip through. When she crossed the threshold, the moisture from the dampened earth amplified the smell ten folds and caused her to stagger. But she could not stop, she had to get closer, find the source of it then perhaps she would know what happened and how she obtained the glove.

Deeper into the mausoleum, a second entrance revealed steps leading down. The narrow catacomb walls were lined with sconces, intermittently, stone saints stood watch just before smaller inserts where more tombs lied. Much of the surfaces were covered thickly in spider webs. Chips of stone and insect carcasses littered the path along the dancing shadows, conjured by small candlelight. At the end of the tunnel, it bottomed out.

Laz followed the steps down, entering the leveled part of the tunnel. Shadowy inserts passed on her left and right; more graves guarded by saints and small vigils. She could hear them, even if she couldn't see them. Playing the shadows, moving swiftly about the corner of her eyes, whispering behind drafts of air and eerie groans.

Despite her ungainly entrance, nothing greeted her or intercepted her arrival.

Perhaps it wasn't a lair, but a meeting area. Cliche as it seemed to find a vampire dwelling beneath a cemetery, its discovery was not difficult, poorly hidden in fact. It must be a ruse, a place to mislead those hunting for the vampire only to come up empty-handed and trapped beneath the earth.

When she glanced back, the door remained ajar and, indeed, hadn't slammed shut as soon as she crossed the threshold. Cautious but undeterred, she continued carefully, slowly down the stone steps, ears straining, breath shallow, deeper and deeper into the earth. Her heart and blood continued to hammer and roar.

The end of the tunnel came shortly after, opening into a large catacomb. Straight ahead was a sarcophagus decorated with two large stone pots flowing with bright fires. That mysterious but alluring smell, the natural stillness, and the glow and crackle from the urns that filled the space were haunting, frightening even, but it couldn't deter Laz. The smell, it was here and hopefully it could tell her what happened.

Eyes rounded with wonder and curiosity as she looked about, Laz found a set of stairs on her right ascending to a small mezzanine directly aloft the tunnel she'd come from. To her back left was a second entrance, an ominous black hole, leading deeper into the earth through an impenetrable shadowed maw. Stones crunched between her boots as she wandered across towards the stairs to the right, ascending at the very moment Laz heard a sigh.

A shiver coursed through her, rooting her to the floor before she could turn and run back towards the tunnel. Frozen in place, ears straining, Laz held her breath and listened. Whatever it was, was no longer moving. She was afraid now or perhaps she'd been afraid the entire time and only  _now_ was she in danger.

Most of the upper mezzanine she could see. Copper colored machinery, candle lights, several bookshelves, but what was it she heard? If someone was up there, she couldn't see them.

Mustering the courage, she picked up her leg, took a step, picked up her other leg, and took another step. Slowly, mechanically, she ascended the stairs until she reached the small landing on the mezzanine.

It was empty. No one awaited at the top.

_I know what I heard..._

There was a bed to her immediate left with a study desk and more bookcases. To her right was a workbench, a large kettle before an empty, charred hearth, discarded books, and the odd machinery she saw from below. Furthermore, the smell of roses was all around her, permeating the air. Even with her keen senses, there was no telling where it derived from. It came through the cracks of the floor, the glow of the fire, dripped like the shadows that surrounded her. Fear and indecision held her in place. She wanted to flee, but what if the moment she moved too quickly, something sprang out from the shadows, screaming and roaring, with claws and a serrated maw?

Laz glanced at the bed. The sheets were mussed but no dust covered any of the surfaces. Neither the study desk, the workbenches, or the book that laid next to the pillow which meant the dwelling was routinely inhabited and cleaned. Plus, the fire and the sconces were lit, her first indication.

Slowly, she turned and looked down towards the sarcophagus. The bottom floor was empty but she  _felt_ it. Whatever it was,  _it was still here with her_  and it was watching _._ She imagined the stone groaning as the lid moved across the sarcophagus' opening, revealing a decayed hand reaching for the ledge, rising from its depths. A shudder encased her, but the stone did not move and the fire did not dip and dance with a gust of wind. She was alone...

_No... she wasn't._

Swallowing thickly, she glanced back at the bed, then to the sarcophagus, and back to the bed. She approached it, kneeling. A book rested beside the pillow, she opened it. Turning the pages, it was a journal of some sort with elegant penmanship. Curious, considering scent had gotten her this far, she lowered her head and gave the pages an experimental sniff. Closing the book, she touched the sheets, the blanket, the thin pillow. There were tiny flecks of blood near the pillow which she ran her fingertips over. She brought it closer just as her heart quickened and the incessant throb between her thighs ached hotly. Laz pressed her face into the cool folds and breathed. It stifled much of the noises she made. The guttural moan broke free while her entire body flexed, fingers gripped the fabric tightly and her figure curled up, keeling over onto the bedding. Her blood sang, her heart thundered. The pleasure was real and it was happening. She wasn't hallucinating and couldn't stop the little streams of noises she made.

Breaths riven in shallow gasps, she clutched the pillow tightly as if the firmer she held it, the better chances were to keep from falling apart.  _A man..._ she could smell him, like the pheromones in the philters Keira gave her to help with the pain. The glove belonged to a man, but unlike any man she'd crossed paths with before. Something was...different, not quite... _natural._  And perhaps it was this unique, unnatural scent that Laz was drawn too. For she possessed her own unique, unnaturalness.

Dazed and somewhat drunk from the scent, this dwelling, which had no dust and all the sconces and stone vigils were lit, was still inhabited. Laz could not remain here any longer. If she could only find the man it belonged to, prove he was alive and that she had not killed him in some unfortunate accident. As much as she believed the unlikelihood, there was no proof. She had to find him or, at least, what remained of him.

As she cuddled the pillow, the eerie, unsettling sensation of being watched remained.

_This place must be haunted...that is why I feel a presence. Haunted like Tesham Mutna._

Filled with the deceased, it was no wonder she felt uncomfortable. The dead resided in here, hiding in the shadows, lingering at the corner of her eyes and vanishing when she looked. She pulled the pillow away from her face and sat up on the bed she sprawled across. Once again, her eyes automatically trained onto the entombment below. The urns of fire lapped and popped and then a smoke rose from behind the flames, condensing and drifting. Something unseen seized her just moments before clarity took. The smoke was not from the urns. It was entirely separate.

Fear... no, worse, something beyond her will to run locked her in place. Hands down at her sides, fingers curling the fabric beneath her in a white-knuckled fist as the undulating smoke moved away from the fire's light and sank to the floor where it continued to thicken and take shape. While it moved, it formed boots, then shapely calves dressed in black that walked across the flagstone. The shroud conjured knees, bending as it lifted itself onto the stairs. Powerful thighs manifested as it ascended the mezzanine's landing. Thin wisps of black smoke pulled from nothing into  _something_  sighing, breathing, then stitching together a man's dark doublet; it revealed a chest, then shoulders and arms ending with sharp claws. One hand wore a black, fingerless glove, the other was pale and bare. A satchel wove itself into existence across his shoulder and chest with a single garlic clove hanging from its leather straps.

Until finally, fully, a pale and gaunt man stood before her as she sat dumbfounded and mute along his very bed.

It was  _him_ , the grizzled companion to the witcher. The very one she followed to Tesham Mutna.

_The vampire._


	8. If Only...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laz stands before the vampire.

With eye's black as glistening agate, they drew her in like the moon called the tide. This gaunt vampire now stood solid and tangible before her, when just second ago, he was an undulating smoke as silent as a phantom. Her own stare trained momentarily on his glove.

Black, fingerless. The other hand was unclad.

 _Just a coincidence._ she told herself.

 _Don't be a fool, Lazarus!_ she heard in her mother's voice.

Shivering not from cold, Laz drew her arms around herself as she stared up. Tighter, she squeezed, realizing it was  _those_  inky pools she felt following her every move, from the moment she stepped into the catacombs until she climbed the mezzanine. Now those very dark depths pulled her in, sinking deeper and deeper the longer she looked, swallowing her whole like a black ocean. He was paler than she remembered, but then again, she never saw him,  _or the witcher_ , full on. Merely profiles and side-views. His proud mouth was dark and thin, tilted at the corners in a subtle smirk. His pale hair was orange in the fire's light and his  _scent._  It took a lot of effort on her part to prevent fainting.

_My mouth is dry. I am staring. My eyes burn._

Unique and unnatural,  _just like Lazarus._  Was the shroud his true form, was the man?

Or was that an illusion, as well?

"I knew you'd come." He muttered, turning away from her to stare unseeingly across the catacombs. "I felt something, but wasn't certain exactly what or whom would answer."

The vampire glanced over his shoulder, staring down at her from the corner of his dark eyes. "I'm sure you have plenty of questions for me."

Among all else, his gaze wreaked havoc upon her. Her blood screamed in her veins, pounding like a war drum against her ears.  _Everything_  throbbed. From her temples, down between her legs, to her toes as if her blood was alive and roaring, sloshing like a violent sea tossed amid a relentless storm. If Laz were standing, certainly her legs would fail her. They would wobble and her knees would soften and dump her onto the floor.

 _Yes, I have questions._ she thought _. But I can't, for the life of me, focus on what they were, or why I came here in the first place._

"The door was unlocked," she muttered, ashamed of her intrusion.

"Is that would you believe allowed you into these catacombs I call my makeshift home?"

What a sight she must be to him; a strange woman wallowing in his bedding like a hot sow in cold mud. Legs tangled in her dress, boots caked in mud, hair in a shambled, ghostly-white crown.

Laz looked up at him with nowhere to go and no explanation for herself. She'd come here with the intent of finding the vampire.

And she found him... but she was forgetting something.

_Perhaps it is time to go._

A second shiver caressed her spine, prickling her skin with goosebumps. Her body responded eagerly and without volition. She closed her eyes, forcing the images of her tearing the clothes off the vampire from her thoughts. Everything she felt conflicted greatly with her current situation. Fear was the proper response when meeting her first vampire. Not desire.

"Did you feel that?" he asked, curiously, even though the answer was evident. When she looked up, the smirk fell. Was he toying with her?

_Gods, be damned!_

"I feel a  _number_  of things," she muttered, blushing with a thick swallow.

"Then my suspicions are correct," he sighed. "Somehow and, more importantly, without my knowledge, you consumed my blood. Care to elaborate how and why you would do such a thing?"

Laz refused to meet his eyes, still holding herself, still flustered.

"Are you going to bite me?" she asked suspiciously. Like a child caught amidst a lie, she looked up at the vampire as if he were her parent and she was about to be reprimanded.

"Of course not," he snorted, looking away. "Vampire's don't require blood to survive. Much like you do not sustain yourself with spirits or hooch. Quite the same principle."

Laz exhaled slowly.That was somewhat a relief. Even still, it did not lessen her anxious heart. He could bite her if he wanted or, at the very least, try to bite her. She knew how that would certainly end. She was mostly concerned about withholding any incriminating information on her behalf. Once before on Skellige Isles, she awoke surrounded by dead sirens while the neighboring villages were on the hunt for a dire wolf to claim for their war parties. A close call but one she had tactfully avoided.

"So will you elaborate on how we managed to go from strangers to blood-bound?"

Laz's little heart leaped in ways she found unfathomable, but she feigned disinterest and shrugged.

Could he see, she wondered? Could he see through her and remember her from Tesham Mutna as the pale beast that stalked the dungeon floor? Could he see into her gold or blue eye, into the window of her wolf? Certainly, such a discovery would be the forefront of his thoughts. If he asked, she would deny it all. In truth, she had absolutely no idea how she managed to consume vampire blood or if what he said was even true. People were not part of her diet, neither was their blood. Furthermore, if she told him of the glove he would want to know how she came to possess it.

In fact, by his unwavering eyes, he might have already known.

Reading her reluctance, he sighed wistfully, "I don't wish to deign myself by  _forcing_  you. It would be best if you just told me."

Laz furrowed her brow at the subtle challenge. Handsome or not. Vampire or not, no one forced her to do anything.

" _Please,_ " he said softly, reading her darkened expression.

She straightened up, squaring her shoulders defiantly. "I told you, I don't know."

He closed his eyes and when they reopened, they were swallowed in black.

Suddenly, her head felt too heavy for her neck while a tremor rattled her teeth and jaw. Like before, an unseen force seized her in the same otherworldly possession that held her fast against the bed when he first appeared, pounding and resonating through her bones, forcing the words to form on her tongue beyond her volition.

"A glove!" she blurted.

The pressure vanished and her arms flew out to catch herself from falling back.

"Where is it now?"

"At home, under my pillow," she said quickly. Laz was startled. Unexpectantly and inexplicably, he reigned over her, no longer able to move, or provide herself free will. 

"I found it," she continued before he could crowd her skull again. "This morning, I woke and it was in my hand. I swear I don't know how I came to have it. I went to the cemetery to see my mother's grave and now I'm here."

_That was it. No further._

Glancing up, she met his eyes and quickly looked away. They had returned to their normal obsidian pools. Normal with whites around them, gentle, even. Albeit, he was no shrieking bat as she anticipated, he was still a vampire and it was shocking he was able to force her to talk and prevent her from moving. Despite this, fear did not spur her to jump up and flee, and this worried her. Where were her instincts? Why were they not firing off?

"I called you here. Summoned you, to be precise." the vampire said, almost ashamed to admit. "My blood courses your veins, and until this bond diminishes, I will feel you. And you will feel me."

Blushing, Laz turned her face away to conceal her colored cheeks.

"Yes," he said, noticing her demure nonetheless. "A blood bond is a  _very_  intimate matter. Sharing blood with another for vampire's is not a casual practice. It's stronger than any bond you humans share."

Laz flinched at such assumption: _h_ _uman..._ If only it were that simple. Evoked like a spell, cast into existence to be another cold and numb illusion thrust upon her.

_If only ..._

If only he understood how these convoluted feelings were a first for her. If only he could see the grueling, agony she endured every time she accepted who and what she was, even without understanding. The mystery of it all. The pain she inflicted when she pulled herself apart. Like a mask, she raked her nails through her flesh, sloughing slops of deception from her figure into a pile of grotesque lies.

Her quiet struggle must have been plain to see, for the vampire vanished right before her eyes, only to reappear several paces away. He removed a bottle of wine but did not disperse into a shroud of black and grey mist like before, but strode across the floor casually, popped the cork and proffered it to her.

To hell with tankards, she supposed.

Reaching up with a trembling hand, she carefully wrapped her hand around the bottle. Their fingers brushed and the wine fell from a startling shock, shattering on the floor as images tore through Laz's mind like a scorching flame.

_Screams of hellish register resonated off stone walls. Unfathomable creatures roared below a thrashing cage. A pair of naked bodies, stark in color, writhed as one. The bowels of Tesham Mutna filling with a cacophonous, dissonant orchestra. Long white hair. An overhead look of the carnage below, framed by metal bars and delirious by a blinding, insatiable bloodlust. Gentle claws gripping, kneading breasts. Wrists bound, bitten by iron while bodies were ripped asunder. Blood sprayed, a wolf prowled, a hunter danced. Pale hips wrapped in sun-kissed thighs, thrusting. Blood running down her neck._

Then it stopped. At once. Suddenly. The vision ejected them with enough force to them apart. The vampire staggered, Laz fell back against the bookshelf with enough impact to topple several novels. A swell of sickness bloomed in her stomach as she fought to breathe, coughing instead. Her entire skull throbbed.

She shot a look at the stranger before her. The vampire shook his befuddled head and met her eyes with equal amazement. No horror marred his expression as she expected, he was astonished. But from what?  _Her wolf?_ For the first time, she saw the animal. Towering, starved, formidable. Was he making the connection?

A conflicting medley of trepidation and desire wrought within, both battling over her head and her heart for woven between the startling images were her and the vampire tangled together, writhing and delving as one. They flashed like afterthoughts, too quick to acknowledge immediately, but left a residual image like staring at the sun for too long.

But Laz had nothing to do with that and it wasn't as if she conjured those images alone.

"Are we going to talk about what just happened?" she found her voice. "What were those images?"

 _Don't mention the wolf,_ she begged with her eyes.

He was thoughtful for a moment, turning his palm upward to stare at it.

Laz positioned her legs and readied to spring up to her feet and make a run for it.

The vampire walked away, only to return with a second bottle of  _Est Est_ wine. This time he used a sharp claw to remove the cork and took a deep pull before handing it to her. They made sure not to touch this time then he knelt to pluck up the shards of glass. Laz couldn't argue with that. Pressing the bottle to her lips, she tilted her head back until her cheeks bulged with the drink, then swallowed, gasping once the liquid cleared her throat. A fluster consumed her face, warming her already-heated cheeks. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand then blinked several times to right her vision. The drink worked quickly on an empty stomach.

The vampire remained silent, removing all the tiny pieces and setting them aside. But his features, as handsome as they were, were drawn tight and thoughtful. She set the drink down on the desk for him to take once he was done.

"I'm so sorry-I," she realized she still sat upon his bed, leaping to her feet quickly.

The wine, the damned, bloody wine caused her foot to slip. The vampire stood and caught her as she pitched forward, wrapping his arms around her back.

Images burst forth a second time, tearing across their mind's eye:

 _Together, this time, they stood at the amphitheater side by side. Laz looked around at the broken ruins, one of the many last remaining Elven structures in Toussaint. The sun was high, warming the air pleasantly until a_ _sickening crack took her attention from the skies back to the theatre. Her head snapped around, spotting the large wolf bent over what remained of a woman's body. Scraps of flesh, fractured bones, clothing torn into ribbons. A skull with a missing eye and a crown of white hair soaked in blood stared directly at her. Her true form._

Yes, she knew what it was doing; eating the leftovers, satiating itself but also hiding the evidence of its Gift, protecting who held the Name, the secret. She'd never seen it before, but it couldn't have been any different than the time she woke in its morbid carcass.

It was horrific.

It was beautiful.

_A scream split the air suddenly and Laz jumped back, clinging to the vampire beside her. The emission tore across the amphitheater from all around. It came from the treetops, the blackbirds swooping through the air, cawing, screaming. It came from the innards of the theatre and all around, vibrating the air like magic. No matter where she looked she could not find the scream...until…_

_Her wolf was sprinting through the thicket. Trees flew past it in a dark blur. A ghostly path, spectral blue beneath the moonlight, lead the way to safety, but sanctuary was too far. Laz could taste the fear, see the strain of it in her wolf's eyes as it darted through the trees._ _Someone was chasing it, gaining rapidly. No matter how hard it pumped its legs, how wide it stretched its gallop. When it leapt through narrow openings between the trees, raced down a cold, bubbling stream to climb the steep hillside, it still couldn't shake its pursuer._

_The thunder of the horse came from the dense shadows. The wolf whined, desperate to survive, to flee and seek shelter until morning. But it couldn't sleep, not now. Not until the search was over._

_A refraction the moonlight glinted menacing along a raised sword, beneath the sword was its bearer upon a chestnut mare. They broke through the trees, the same trees now in the wolf's desperate wake._ _The steady breath of the galloping horse punctuated each thunderous report. Yellow, glaring eyes trained with determination glowed like the fireflies._

_Closing in, eating the distance between hunter and the hunted._

_The blade sliced through the air. Lazarus screamed._

"NO!"

The vision ended and all the strength that kept her knees from buckling released. Still held upright by the arms of the vampire in the same manner that she clung to him in the vision, they both spilled to the floor. Her scream was real, even if the vision was not and bounced off the cold stone walls to hang in the air.

" _Who_  are you?" the vampire asked, pulling her close as he held her. " _What_  are you?"

_He knew._

Laz wrenched herself from his arms, afraid―finally, horribly―afraid. Leaping to her feet, she stopped short of the stairs when he caught her wrist.

Laz grimaced, anticipating and receiving a third wave of sights and sounds. This time, she saw the wolf pull the glove from his hands, licked the wound along his palm clean and then leave.

She opened her eyes and met his worried gaze, where she found  _her_  fear.

_I will feel you… and you will feel me._

Yes, she understood now. They were tethered, spiritually bound so long as his blood flooded her veins. But there were ways in getting rid of that blood. She could change, bleed herself out like a stuck pig and wait for the surrender. 

With her secret uncovered, an icy dread sank to her stomach like a heavy stone. They were visions, visions that had happened and others that had yet to unfold.

 _Geralt of Rivia;_  the witcher summoned by the Duchess herself.

 _Geralt of Rivia_ , though unproven, was the monster that killed her mother.

But she knew it was not a coincidence.

And now,  _he was here to kill her._

Trembling, Laz twisted her wrist swiftly from the vampire's cool grasp. She backed up, faltering upon the steps.

"Stay away from me," her voice quivered, eyes glittering with welling tears. "Come near me and I will tell  _everyone_  what you are!"

Turning, she bounded down the stairs in two strides.

He did not change into his mist, he did not follow her, nor did he intercept her escape as she ran past the bowls of fire, up the buckled tunnel stairs, and out into the Mere-Lachaiselongue cemetery.


	9. Everyone Has a Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laz can no longer avoid the vampire and makes a desperate decision.

The following morning came, Laz had remained awake throughout the long night. With the looming fear elicited by the troublesome visions, how could she sleep?

Geralt of Rivia was out there, somewhere. Whether he knew the Name of the woman and the Gift she possessed was undetermined. As far as the vampire went, between the memories and the predictions, it was up to her to decide how, when, and in what ways she could prevent such happenings.

Of course, she considered changing on the far outskirts of Toussaint so that whatever lure called her back to the vampire no longer remained. She decided not to. The hour at which she considered such notion was already late. The time to change back as a woman and make it to the inn wasn’t feasible either. Amidst such emotional strain, she would have awoken on the peaks of Mt. Gorgon, probably naked, bloody, and surrounded by snow.

Now on the bottom floor of the Pheasantry Inn, she could not help but jump every time the tavern doors burst open, bringing forth a newcomer that could very well by the witcher. With so much tension building inside, Laz worried her bottom lip until she tasted blood, which of course, prompted thoughts of _another_ man in question.

Setting down a platter of dried fruits, biscuits, jam and a mug full of apple juice, she strode past a window and paused. Passed the window, a couple hand-in-hand strolled by. The brunette noblewoman threw her head back in a fit of giggles, pulled closed to her betrothed at her side. The man smiled, pleased with her reaction, and leaned in to kiss her cheek. They continued on until no longer in her line of sight.

Laz felt... _nothing._

No sharp spurs of jealousy, no cold coveting for another.

_Nothing._

Keira’s death was the pinnacle of her emotions. Everything she loathed or conspired against was to avenge her mother’s death. Anything loved or cherished was for Keira, by Keira, or from Keira.

Any other physiological afflictions were either hunger, fatigue and, the newest and most alarming affliction, arousal. Even still, she'd braced for an emotive to stir its sleepy head and cloud her thoughts with  _what if's._

Outside, the sun shined relentlessly, almost mockingly bright. How could a pretty day not reflect this turmoil festering within? The skies should have been covered in a thick overcast, cooling the flagstone under a pouring rain. Even the quiet Seidhe Llygad glittering between the harbor and the palace grounds did not churn and white-cap from a blowing wind, but it should have, like her molten blood still reeling, still singing for the vampire.

If there was a chance to sever whatever blood magic confined her to the vampire, changing would not have been it. No, the wolf was the very reason his blood pulsed through her. The fact that the following day her afflictions remained indicated she was right about that. 

“Feelin’ a bit of heartache, are you?” came a woman’s voice.

Laz jumped from start then glared at Ygritte who held a basket of bread against her round hip. Her apron wrapped around her dark brown dress was stained dark from stouts and flour.

The barmaid chuckled, revealing little dimples embedded in each cheek.

“Did I startle you?”

“It’s fine,” Laz murmured, moving past her towards the kitchen.

“How’s everything with your mother?” Ygritte followed closely behind, rambling. “I knew you returned a few days ago, but you were alone. Did she decide not to come to Toussaint after all?”

“No,” Laz wiped her hands clean with her apron. “She’s here.”

“Oh? Well, that’s wonderful! When I can I meet her?”

“Ygritte,” Laz said sullenly, meeting the barmaid’s bright gaze with a flat look. “She is dead, I buried her shortly after my arrival.”

 _“What!?_ ” Ygritte gasped, floored by the news. There was no point in prolonging the inevitable flurry of questions. The sooner she told her, the sooner the conversation could end.

The mood soured and she exhausted, Laz tossed together a second platter of food. Her insides felt stuffed with hot coals.

Seeing this, Ygritte took her silently by the hand and led her to the back of the tavern. She was met by no protest. Laz trusted Ygritte nearly as much as she trusted Keira, landing her the job at the tavern when Hawks clearly did not like Laz from the start. Even now, with her relationship with the innkeeper teetering on unstable grounds, Ygritte vouched for her time and time again. She owed a tremendous amount of her success to Ygritte.

 _If only,_ the little voice said.  _If only you could return the favor and display your gratitude._

_But you can't._

_Because you can't feel._

A set of stairs led them down into the wine cellars where the cold silence pressed in from all sides. Several candelabras threw dancing shadows across the wine barrels and cast its guests' features in sharp relief.

“Don’t you cry,” Ygritte threatened tenderly, setting aside a couple of stools. She patted the surface of one and sat in the other, saying. “Tell me everything.”

Laz obeyed and recounted her efforts to return to Midcopse; her intentions to convince Keira to move to Toussaint and ultimately arriving onto Fyke Isle where the search came to an abrupt, literal dead end.

“I found this on her,” Laz pulled the weathered parchment tucked behind her apron, handing it to Ygritte. It had been folded and re-folded so many times, the parchment was coming apart at the creases.

“Oh no,” she whispered despondently, eyeing the portrait. “That’s the witcher. The one the Duchess requested. He was just here last night.”

Laz bit her lip to hid her expression. The witcher worked quickly making his rounds about Beauclair apparently. She hated that. She also hated how well the populace responded to his presence. Women fawned over him. Men boasted about the witcher guild. Were this Velen, they would sing an entirely different tune. But Toussaint had a knack for freaks and outsiders, the Duchess was just as eager to accept the unique and uncommon, as well. 

The barmaid glanced up skeptically. “Maybe you’re reading too into it.”

“Ygritte!” Laz gawked. How could she not see and connect these claims herself?

“He’s the _last_ person to see Keira alive, and I found _this_ on her dead body,” she indicated to the portrait. “Every artery had been sliced, by a _sword,_ Ygritte! A witcher carries two swords quite capable of cutting down men and women. Did you hear about Honorton slaughtering? Guess who was the culprit to the massacre?  _A fuckin' witcher."_

Laz crossed her arms and rooted firmly in her convictions. She was also far from done, continuing before Ygritte could challenge her again.

“Keira _trusted_ him, he meant something to her, and what did he do?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “He left her to bleed out and die. Didn't even have the decency to grant her a swift death. When I sink my bloody teeth into him―!”

Ygritte shushed her, “Keep your voice down, lest someone hear. He’s a _witcher―_ ”

 _“I know what the fuck he is,_ ” she seethed through clenched teeth. “I _know_ it’s risky, but after all, _I would be dead if not for her._ ”

Laz lowered her eyes to the floor to watch the stretching and writhing shadows as she fumed. “I _must_ do something. I can not―,” she breathed, reigning in her surmounting ire, “Sit idle and wait for him to come for me.”

Ygritte knitted her brow. “Why would he need to come for you?”

Laz paused, knowing she needed to be more careful with what she told Ygritte. “I am a Metz.What if word travels and he wants to tie loose ends?”

“ _Laz_ ” Ygritte said assuringly with a chuckle, unconvinced by the suspicions. “ _You sound mad!_ What would be his purpose to kill a sorceress, or even you? We all hear stories and ballads about Geralt of Rivia; the White Wolf. He slays _monsters_ , not a tardy barmaid or sorceress. Besides, I heard he is quite fond of the latter.”

“I don’t care what he’s fond of,” Laz spat bitterly, resenting everything thing about the man. Moreover, she couldn’t reveal her crossings with a vampire, to explain why she sounded mad. Enough creatures roamed the Caroberta Woods.

 _Witchers, vampires, dire wolves. The Butcher of Beauclair;_ a superfluous echelon of shit Laz did not wish to explain or trouble Ygritte with.

“And don’t call him the _White Wolf.”_ she hissed spitefully, “He doesn’t deserve such a title.”

The girls stood, both prompted by the increasing foot traffic that thudded above them.

“Whatever you do, please be careful.” Ygritte whispered, catching Laz’s elbow before they took the stairs. “This is a witcher you're after...”

* * *

 Once again, sleep eluded Lazarus.

Nightmares of Keira strewn across the dirt, bleeding to death, begging for her life while the shadow of Geralt loomed over her clouded her mind, but the feverish illusions did not end there. Another placed her back into the thicket, running for her life with a great black mare hot on her heels.

Each time, _he_ drew closer.

Each time, the brandished sword closed in.

Each time, she woke with a start the moment the blade cut down.

Sweat glistened on her chest as Laz sat along her bed, staring through her opened window after having woken from yet another nightmare. Tendrils of damp hair clung to her temples and her heart still throbbed in her chest from the residual fright that wrenched her from sleep.

 _It was only a dream,_ she told herself. _And a warning._

How such a man was allowed in the personal favors of Keira Metz was beyond her. With all her arcane talent and spells, surely an incantation could have been used to aid in her plight. Unless there was more between Keira and Geralt she was unaware of. Even with that in consideration, it shouldn’t have costed Keira _her life._

Merciless witchers, they were.

A gentle breeze swelled the curtains, bringing in the cool air across the harbor. Relaxing, she closed her eyes, listening to the trilling crickets and tree frogs. Even still, fatigue clung to her limbs whilst she tried to relax. She needed rest, even if it meant nightmares awaiting behind her closed eyes.  Alongside the fear fraying her senses, all she could think about was the witcher. Where was he now? Cutting down another sorceress?

What about the vampire?

_Oh, but the vampire..._

Laz hadn’t stayed long enough to understand what was happening between them or why visions exploded across her mind’s eye every time they touched. All she knew was her secret had been revealed and the witcher would soon come for her, such was relayed through those ghastly premonitions. So she’d fled after making her threats.

In spite of herself, she still thought about him at great lengths. It was _his_ blood, she assured herself, which forced her to see him in a different, desirable light.

But what did she know? Laz never _felt_ anything.

Keira gave her a Gift to change from wolf to woman and a Name, but Laz could not care or love another as she loved and cared for Keira. It was unfathomable, impossible even. It almost seemed betraying. But also, how could a witcher and vampire work in close conjunction?

 _He’s a monster slayer_ after all. Wouldn’t that put the vampire―a monster―in danger?

No, Laz sighed softly, fondly. The vampire was not a monster. Even now, she could still feel how his arms wrapped around her, holding her to his chest so that she wouldn’t collapse onto the stone floor.

Monsters were not gentle like that.

However, he’d drank blood before the witcher and they’d corroborated at Tesham Mutna together, which meant the vampire _trusted_ him.

_Much like Keira had trusted him..._

As once, Laz wanted to warn the vampire, even if their acquaintance was short lived and rather strained. Even if she did threaten exposing him, saying it was mostly out of reflex. It was an empty threat, one she did not mean.

Dressed in a thin night chemise that stopped just shy of mid-thigh, Laz rose from her bed and approached the opened window of her bedroom. The window overlooked the lake, towards the palace where lanterns and torches from patrolling guards winked in and out of the trees and battlement. A path wove through the hillside down to the water below. High on the precipices where the castle sat, shadows drifted past arched windows where noble families prepared for bed. If the night was quiet enough and there wasn’t a breeze to disturb the lake, sometimes Laz could hear music, laughter, and the occasional cry of a peacock. She always wanted to see the palace grounds, but never got any further than the gate guards.

At any rate,  _if_  she could ever feel a sting of envy or coveting, she reminded herself where she came from; No Man’s Land. Velen was wartorn, starving, and desolate. Here in Toussaint, it couldn’t be _more_ different. Not to mention, she’d done her share of traveling. Mostly fleeing. The world was vast and yes, _there be real monsters out there._

There was a balcony outside her window and on the far left end, it led to a courtyard below by stair. Resting her hands along the window sill, Laz leaned against it and closed her eyes, filling her lungs with nightfall’s air.

She paused and listened.

At first, she only heard the soft snores of Ygritte and Imogen, then the Seidhe Llygad softly slap the harbor walls, more crickets, and the groaning ropes keeping the boats moored to their docks; winds howling as they drifted down Mt. Gorgon into the foothills, rustling the grassy knolls, the treetops, and bringing a swath of fog descending from its snowy peaks. Laz felt boundless and unrestrained to the gloaming chorus around her. Even with her eyes closed, she could still see the spray of stars above her, the birds cuddled in their nests, a ghoul― _ew, a ghoul._

She focused, pushing further out, reaching beyond her immediate area without any idea what was to happen, winding her way through Beauclair, Metinna Gate, and into the cemetery like a spectral with no shape or definitive form.

A conversation was heard.

 _“You never indulged what happened to our spotted wight.”_ a familiar voice reached her ears.

She opened her eyes, finding herself back in her bedroom within the Pheasantry. Confused, she looked out towards the tavern veranda below. No one was there walking across the stone or seated at the cushions. Not along the piers, or the small square. And any persons still remaining in the square were passed out along the cobblestone after being well into their cups.

Shutting her eyes, she repeated the process and, after some trial and error, found her way back to the conversation.

_“...as a cook at my vineyard. Her name is Marlene. I told her she could remain there as long as she liked. ”_

Everything was black. She could not see through the impenetrable black wall, she could only hear them.

_“My, my... witchers do have hearts.”_

Laz stiffened.

The conversation paused for a brief moment.

Furrowing her brow, she saw a spark of light hover in the darkness. It grew, pulsating and contracting until it swallowed her vision with colors and shapes taking form. Now through her mind’s eye she saw the lair, the witcher, and the vampire. But she wasn’t _in_ the room, she was all around them, hanging from the roots, dancing with the rising embers from the bowls of fire, looking up from the buckled flooring. Everywhere, but _nowhere at all._

 _“While you were gone, Geralt.”_ the vampire spoke _,_ sitting across from the witcher at a table set before a large bookshelf. A three-branched candelabra swelled the corner in a warm glow.  _“I met with someone.”_

_“Did Detlaff finally come out of hiding?”_

_“He has not and will not if that is what he wishes.”_ the vampire paused. “ _I’m referring to a woman. She came here, into my home, because you forgot how I value my privacy and left the door unlocked.”_

_“Sorry about that.”_

_“No need to apologize. She was rather interesting company, but there’s something troubling her. A great amount of conflict wrought within.”_

_“Like most women.”_ the witcher deadpanned.

The vampire chuckled, _“Coming from a man with a penchant for pretty sorceresses. Not all women are crotchety spellcasters.”_

 _“Get on with it, Regis.”_ Geralt’s rough voice grumbled, “ _You wanted to tell me something about her or you wouldn’t have brought it up. What is it?”_

“Regis,” Laz whispered aloud, tasting the name. A shiver raced through her, but never quite reached her entire body.

The vampire cleared his throat, becoming uncomfortable. _“Very well. Do you recall that remarkably sized wolf back at Tesham Mutna? The one you told to sit and then proceeded to scratch its belly whilst I writhed insufferably in my cage?”_

A shock of surprise jolted her at the same moment a draft of air flickered every flame in his lair.

“Don’t!” Laz pleaded, half-way leaning out of the window. “ _Please_!” 

She would run to the woods if she had to, cause a scene if she must if it meant preventing her discovery.

Glancing at the tunnel entrance, Geralt reached up and adjusted his necklace. _“Yeah, what about it?”_

There was an uncertain pause in the discussion. Regis was looking down at the table, contemplating. He turned over his hand, which rested in his lap.

Laz bit into her tongue until it bled, but was too focused for the pain to register. _Don’t tell him._  she begged, _Don’t tell him!_

 _“Nothing,”_ Regis finally muttered, huffing. “ _I feared it was a hallucination conjured by a state of utter delirium.”_

Laz opened her eyes, breaking the thin thread that connected her to Regis. As it snapped, a shock of cold swept through her, leaving a familiar hollow, emptiness in its wake.

Now she could taste the blood, feeling the sharp pain along her pulse.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise Geralt was aware of the wolf, assuming the visions were accurate. So perhaps there was a chance he wasn’t after her? The visions both showed the past and the present, she assumed. Had she managed to avoid her demise altogether?

Or….had the monster slayer spared another monster?

Laz felt like she was going to vomit with the sudden, unorthodox news of her more primordial form.

“How could you do this to me?” she internally chastised the wolf. “You rolled over for some fucking lap dog _for a witcher_?”

 _Those hands... God's be damned, Keira._ Laz shook her head in disbelief.Those hands had touched Keira, killed her, then had touched Laz's belly. Her skin crawled at the thought.

A dry heave on the tides of hot anger lurched through her. In her head, over her hammering heart, she heard a very quiet cry. It went ignored while a thorn of anger stabbed her heart. Keira. Had she not perished, Laz would have answers, for everything. Her Gift, most importantly, but as luck would have it… The secrets were buried. All she wanted now was to bridge the gaps and find out what happened to her mother and the only way to expedite such endeavors were if she went to Geralt herself.

But first, she needed to warn Regis.

Suddenly decided, Laz grabbed her dark cloak, haphazardly donned a pair of trousers, and stuffed on her boots. Before she crawled out of the window, she retrieved the glove from under her pillow. Throwing the fastened cloak over her shoulders, she took the stairs down into the courtyard below with it billowing behind her as she raced across the square for Metinna Gate.

Ire kept her vigor high, her legs pumping. The heavy cloak dulled the cool air and bounced off her heels as she ran towards the Mere-La Chaise Longue cemetery.


	10. Desperate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laz refuses to share the vampire with a murderous witcher.

At the cemetery signpost, she paused to catch her breath.

Like will-o-wisps, green motes of light drifted about the tombstones and trees. A spectral glow cast from the moon painted hues of gray against the dense shadows. Laz didn’t need a bright night to find her path. Expecting a shiver or some stirring in her blood the closer she became to his home, she felt nothing but the night's air. _Another illusion?_ she wondered. _Had I conjured it all in my head?_

 _Grief has polluted my mind..._ she thought.

Things were not looking well in the long run. With her mother deceased, if the vampire was to be spared, that meant ridding the witcher. Even worse, the premontions―if that’s what they were―had yet to be deciphered. Geralt had seen the wolf but not the woman, had spared the wolf, but would he do the same for the woman?

Laz knew that answer; _so did Keira._

Climbing the steep mound where she buried her mother, she paused again and strained her senses.

_Still nothing..._

Frowning, she continued on, eventually reaching the mausoleum where the door, unlatched once more, awaited her. Carefully taking the stairs down, she entered the main catacomb and looked for the table and bookshelf she’d seen previously in her head.

She found Regis there. He was seated quietly before a lit three branch candelabra and bookshelf. Just like her vision portrayed. He looked up without the surprise of her arrival whilst a bottle of wine sat on the table before him and two empty glasses. Geralt was nowhere to be seen. Laz twisted around to eye the small mezzanine, but the witcher wasn’t there either and no sound came from the tunnel behind her. 

_Odd._

Drawing the cloak closer to hide her thin chemise, shambled pants and haphazardly donned boots, she collected herself with a sigh and braved the vampire with a steady look.

“Good evening,” she exhaled, still winded from her fervid running.

He sat back against his chair, watching her with steady black eyes.

"Good evening."

It appeared as if she came and went as she pleased, with little regard to anyone who her efforts might affect. Not even a vampire could get some peace and quiet as long as Lazarus was around.

“Once again, I’ve intruded upon you,” she muttered, lips thinning. “I can leave.”

“No,” his words halted her mid-turn. “Please, stay. I happened to have readied a bottle of wine. Care to share a glass?”

She glanced back him as he filled each glass from the bottle. In truth, she could not have heard better words. She paused a few paces away, anticipating the effects of his proximity, but her blood did not stir nor sing as she hoped.

 _Nothing._ Not even a blush.

But she _was_ pleased to see him. Her memory captured his features poorly, but now she was reminded of every charming detail. In fact, he looked better than their initial meeting with flushed cheeks and lips that did not look so gaunt.

“Is something the matter?” he asked, rising to pull her chair out for her.

Laz shook her head and sat. When he took his seat as well, they toasted wordless and drank. She downed the entire contents in one gasping draught, needing the courage most of all to speak freely. He did not wait to pour her another.

“Perhaps an introduction is at hand,” he replaced the cork and set the bottle aside. “My name is Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy,” he began. “I’m a barber-surgeon and, which you gathered on your own, a higher vampire. But please, I vehemently request that you do not share that with anyone else.”

She grabbed her second serving of wine and, this time paced herself.

“My name is Lazarus. I am--,” she paused. “No one.”

“I disagree. You’re Lazarus.”

She scoffed.

_You can’t possibly fathom who, or what, I am._

She changed the subject.

“Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy. Quite a mouthful.”

“Regis,” he chuckled, “Regis will do just fine.”

Laz took another large gulp, hoping if she drank fast enough it would put her in a polluted enough state to convey her suspicions carelessly and without hindrance.

“Laz is fine, too,” she added softly while she mulled over her plan of action.

“I’m quite curious as to why you’re here," Regis said, "Your arrival was not of my summoning.”

Laz flinched. Those were words she did _not_ want to hear. 

“I came for the witcher,” she admitted candidly. “Where is he?”

“You just missed him. He’s back of the Path.”

“ _The Path?_ ”

“Yes, he is a very busy man. He’s been pulled every which way since he arrived here in Toussaint.”

“Do you trust him?” she said suddenly, pinning him with her narrowed gaze.

“Of course, I do. He’s my friend.”

“ _Friend?”_ Laz spat, repulsed by the thought. “A witcher?”

“Ah,” he grinned, “You must be one of the many who holds great disdain for the witcher guild.”

“No,” Laz said flatly. “Just _that_ one.”

“Oh?” Regis rose his brow. “And why might that be?”

For one, she'd never met any other witcher. So far, the only one had immediately landed himself onto the proverbial shit list.

Swallowing thickly, she still tasted the blood from her sore and wounded tongue. Before she could talk herself out of reason, she tossed the remaining drink back in a single swig. Blood and wine coated her throat, rich and bitter.  If she wanted him to understand her apprehension, she needed him to understand her suspicions.

“There’s not many of you,” she surmised. “Vampires, that is.”

“We are a rare breed, yes.”

Nodding, she continued.

“I imagined the worst, of course; a terrible blood-gulping fiend that prowls the night,” she looked down into her empty cup.

"As do many."

“Are vampires capable of loving another?”

Regis nodded solemnly. “Vampires actually feel and care a great deal. I would even go so far as to say more so than humans.”

“ _More so_?” As if Laz could ever understand humans and their capabilities, even though she wanted to.

After a short moment of consideration, she muttered, “I’m not going to pretend like you haven’t figured it out, I know you are aware of what I am. _But please,_ ” she paused dramatically. “ _I vehemently request that you do not share that with anyone else._ ”

He chuckled again at her impersonation, presenting a charming smile even despite the pointed teeth. Laz smiled a little herself.

“Lazarus,” he assured her humbly, it sounded like a purr. “Your secret could not possibly be safer.”

For the first time in her life, someone other than Keira knew of her terrible secret. If he only knew how terrible it was… Such a moment called for rejoicing and celebration, but she wasn’t here with happy tidings.

Her smile fell slowly, somberly. “My mother was the only one who knew. I promised her I would never tell another soul, for my own safety. In fact, her efforts were so clandestine, not even _I_ know what I am. She kept all questions at bay.”

Regis poured her another glass and she took it into her hands to stare at her reflection within the blood-red surface.

“I’m telling you this because...,” she met his dark eyes and concerned features sharpened in the candlelight. “I was afraid at first, given you’re a vampire. But if I exist, so can you, then I realized we were much alike; both shunned by humans, poorly understood, hunted and slaughtered for a price. You said you are a rare breed, so am I.here’s not many of you, Regis, but there’s only _one of me―_ that I know of, at least.”

She leaned in closer, whispering coldly. “Your _friend_ killed my mother; my _human_ mother.”

Regis furrowed his brow. “I think you are mistaken. Geralt would never… What was your mother’s name?”

“Does it matter?” Laz snapped. “ _She’s dead!_ What use is her name now?”

“Are you positive it was him?”

Laz tried not to roll her eyes.

“Yes, Regis! Listen to me, he is not on our side. If he is your friend, and you trust him, he will turn on you as he did my mother!”

Her warnings were falling on deaf ears, she realized when he shook his head.

“Geralt is a voice of reason.” he began, “He does not kill intelligent creatures like higher vampires, aside from that it is impossible for humans or witchers alike. Although, I do not wish to speak ill of your mother, take heed and try to understand, perhaps she was behaving in a manner that threatened those around her?”

Furious, Laz chugged the rest of her wine, slammed the glass down onto the table, and rose to her feet. The room swayed and her hands gripped the edge of the furnishing to steady herself as anger and wine flooded her veins.

“My mother was a healer in the town of Midcopse," she seethed, "Locals, day and night, stood outside our home wailing and pleading for her to break their fevers, mend their bones, rekindle their love. Where is the threat in that, dear vampire?”

“Your mother was a witch.”

It was not a question.

“Do not,” her voice quivered with fury. “Call her a that.”

Regis dipped his head, “My apologies; _sorceress_.”

The vampire had stopped drinking at some point while Laz was properly drunk.

For a moment, they sat in a tense silence. Heat flushed her cheeks and grated her ire perpetually. Keira was here savior. What did this  _vampire_ know about family? Did he even have parents? Weren't vampires created like a disease, passed on from one host to the next?

“Did she do this to you?” he gently queried. “Made you...who you are…?”

What a sharp creature… But his question was almost too concerning...  _pitying,_ even.

 _Yes,_ she thought, _but it’s not what you think. She was trying to help me._

“My mother gave me a Gift, she did not curse me," she said slowly. "If you’re one of the many who holds great disdain for sorceress, _spare me the lecture_.” 

Parting with the vampire was never her intention, but as their discussion grew more heated, the more attractive fleeing began to sound. She was already alone now that Keira was gone and Regis had suddenly become the only person to accept her for what she was. And here they were amidst a tiff. More specifically, Laz was in a tiff. Regis couldn't be more bothered.

Only problem that remained was the damned witcher.

That weak, desperate decision closed around her. This secret was too heavy to burden alone, she did not want to lose Regis. 

He stood and came around to table to her side. Taking her wrist gently into his hand, he turned her palm upward, then ran his fingers across the smooth skin of her wrist and forearm, tracing the veins. She closed her eyes, savoring this touch. No visions interrupted her thoughts. Her blood did not vibrate. It was quiet in the catacombs.

“My blood has faded,” he said. “It’s for the best.”

Laz tucked her tongue between her teeth and bit down, hard. The hot wound split and reopened, the coppery tang flowed. As the assaulting taste coated her tongue and painted her teeth, she looked up.

All her life, it’d just been her and Keira. Now alone and confused, Laz wanted it to be just Regis and Lazarus, and most importantly, _without witchers._

No one was there to protect Keira and now she was dead.

_Because of a witcher..._

A rare breed, he had said.

A gentleman; an even gentler vampire.

If she could help him as he had help her―unwittingly, sure―it was certainly worth a shot. She could protect, serve and care for him if it meant preventing one less victim for the witcher, it was worth the risk.

The decision was made and now flowed freely across her palette with the unsuspecting vampire before her. If he could smell it, he gave no indication.

Stepping closer, her intentions were clear. Laz tilted her head back, rising to meet him, and pressing her lips to his mouth softly.

Regis stiffened, _at first_ , then he melded against her responsively. His arms came around, wrapping across her back and pulling her close. Her hands slid up his torso, gripping the folds of his tunic and pulling him down to her, crushing their lips together. With or without his blood, she didn’t have a name for how it felt having a male to press against. Her heart throbbed, feeling his cool lips respond appropriately. She could see now why Keira was… _Keira._ Why men were important to have and utilize. They felt wonderful; they tasted even better.

She draped her arms around his shoulders, arching against his sinewy chest. The cloak slid away from her shoulders, revealing her threadbare chemise tucked loosen in a pair of wrinkled trouser. Regis readjusted him embrace, slipping his arms beneath it to feel her figure more fully.

With a soft groan, Regis yielded to her, parting his lips so that she could delve further and taste him.

_And he could taste her._

Laz combed her fingers through his hair then gripped it firmly by his roots. Their tongues lapped, blood trickled over her lips and down her chin as she deepened the kiss.

Regis gripped her tightly, nearly squeezing the air from her lungs. He moaned, tasting the blood, snarling in her mouth until―

“Regis?” came Geralt's voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes. I know Regis' has sworn off blood drinking. But it was a kiss, just a kiss, how was he supposed to know her mouth was full of blood?  
> And before yall hit me with "HE IS A VAMPIRE. HE CAN SMELL IT!"  
> REST ASSURE, I WILL EXPLAIN.  
> I hope yall enjoyed this little tease, because I mean damn, she does NOT like Geralt and he certainly just cock blocked her.


	11. Peaches

"What the fuck is going on here?" Geralt demanded, addressing the vampire first. " _Regis?"_

 _The witcher_ ; the man who murdered her mother, in the flesh, was before her. The likeness in the bust portrait struck true, but it felt as if a creature which haunted her nightmares had come to life and that was a different fear itself.

As suspected, two swords jutted from their scabbards over broad shoulders. He was tall, just a few inches taller than Regis, pale with hair just a white as hers. And that lengthy scar. Her skin crawled. She didn't want to have anything in common with such an individual.

Laz separated herself from Regis like a young girl caught in the arms of a forbidden lover...by her parent. With bloodstains on her chin and lips, as well as its crimson smear across Regis' mouth, it was evident what behavior the witcher walked in on. And this behavior was thoroughly disapproved of judging by his bristled reaction and cold askance.

Geralt, I―," the vampire began with his noble inflection.

"I acted alone," she blurted, stepping in front of the Regis defensively as if she belonged there. "It's my fault. He had nothing to do with this."

A greater, prouder portion of Lazarus had no desire to explain herself to a witcher of all people especially. In truth, she wanted to drive him away, win the favors and trust with the vampire, while simultaneously returning to the ties that bound them. But her plan would take time,  _and a lot more blood_ , blood she was very much willing to share, shed, and spread across Regis' chest and thighs. A shudder raced down her spine. Pressing her back against him, she was pleased when Regis rested a hand on the slender curve of her flank, felt the gentle drafts of his breath against her neck and ear as he looked down at her, prickling her skin responsively wherever his eyes roamed;  _it was working._

"Regis," Geralt looked past her, speaking tersely. "A word outside."

"No." Laz interrupted a second time. He was supposed to be on the Path, not here, not intervening what she'd just started.

Another pleasant chill shuddered through her when Regis pressed his face into her white tresses and inhaled deeply. It was back, thank the gods.

But no visions... Where were the visions?

Seeing this, he shifted his footing and crossed his arms.

"Listen," the witcher fixed her with an equivocal glare. "Don't do this. Find another vampire, just not Regis."

With the witcher's concern for him imbibing blood, however little, transcended from business to more personal matters, it was clear now she misunderstood their relationship; they were closer friends than she assumed, but that alone was not good news. Closeness had not spared Keira. And what could a witcher possibly know about mercy?

Anger and vengeance flooded her veins.

"Are you afraid you'll have to cut him down?" she spat derisively, "Like you did my mother? Are you asking me to spare him? Like you spared my mother?"

Up until that moment, he was unreadable, expressionless. However, his reptilian eyes narrowed the slightest, reacting to her allegation with an infinitesimal squint. The witcher appraised her with a raking glance, searching for any indicative features that would reveal her ancestry or parentage. He would find no such thing; Lazarus and Keira looked nothing alike.

"Lazarus," Regis swallowed dryly, his voice thick with need as the hand resting on her side gripped gently. " _You need to go_."

There was a warning in his tone, despite the touch. Something predatory and dangerous hung in the air and it wasn't the witcher's presence. Her Gift sensed it, too. It came from behind.

For a moment, she could only fume and glare at Geralt, who met her with his own contemptuous stare. There was so much she had to say, so many reprimands, insults, and biting remarks that she couldn't think straight.

"You heard him," Geralt growled. "Now go."

She heard the call, the crying request of surrender. With the edges of her visions growing dark and fuzzy from anger, the warmth spread rapidly, settling in the pit of her belly. If she turned now...

 _Not here_ , she told herself _. I can't change here._

Geralt straightened his stature and readjusted his arms across his chest with a crunch. Fitted with hardened leathers, mail, belts that went this way and the other, buckles that glittered in the fire's light, and a wolf medallion that, even from her distance, was trembling against the scarred leather, the witcher was armed to the teeth.

_Geralt of Rivia; the White Wolf._

_I'll show you a white wolf._

"Go!" he barked.

Laz launched herself at the witcher.

In a trice, the witcher unfolded his arms, seized her and twisted, throwing her across his hip. Laz took him down by wrapping her arms around his neck and they spilled onto the floor grappling, writhing and grunting for the advantage. Laz was inept compared to him and he was much stronger, but she managed with the squirming vigor of a rabid squirrel, wriggling free from holds, locks, and chokes.

He never once tried to strike her or draw his sword.

With a fierce grunt, she bucked him off as he came in for a mount, and drove her heel between his legs. She missed and struck his inner thigh. All the same, Geralt grunted reflexively, bending over to protect his sensitive parts with one arm while the other shot out and contorted oddly.

A gust of wind knocked her back, sending her rolling across the uneven floor. A furious din filled her head just as a sickening crack felt its way up her spine. She was not injured; she was enraged.

The pain acted as a catharsis, flooding fury into her veins as she slapped the stones for purchase, pulling herself up. Graceless from wine and pain roaring through her, a metallic tang crawled up her throat and trickled from her nose, dripping over her lips. Her cloak fell lopsided over one shoulder as she stood shambled, furious, blind with rage. Another spasm wrought through her, buckling her knees. She stifled the cry with her clenched teeth, but could not hold herself up. Gasping, her breath stopped short in her throat by a swell of blood. She coughed it up, gasping around it.

Sinking, she expected a hard impact, arms appeared and cradled her before she could spill to the floor. Her blood sang merrily only to be cut short as muscles flexed and tore.

 _Not here!_ she pleaded internally. Her face flushed hotly, the skin stretching taut from a building internal pressure. Any moment, her very countenance would burst and the snarling snout of her wolf would be in its stead.

"Lazarus, stop!" came Regis' mouth pressed to her ear. His voice was deep, deeper than moments before. "You are not safe here. Leave! For me!"

Another pained cry ripped from her throat, bones popped and rapidly adjusted. She fought her way out of his arms and fled up the tunnel stairs, climbing madly, blindly until the night air overcame her.

Spiderwebs clung to her limbs and hair, her entire mouth tasted of wet metal.

Coughing up more blood, she spat out a dark crimson wad of gore, trying to staunch the shift through gritted teeth painted red and sheer will laced in agony.

_Not here. If I change here, he will kill me._

_He will kill me._

_He will kill me and that will be the end._

As she reached the shores nearby, stumbling footfalls softened by the sand, she collapsed into the waters and carefully, slowly, swam across. The blood on her face, blood she wanted to share with Regis, the dirt and cobwebs, all washed away into the Seidhe Llygad.

When she reached the other side, she looked back. The opposing shores were empty.

Neither vampire nor witcher chased her down.

And that was quite alright.

* * *

As of late, something unseen had been stalking the graveyard, causing the medallion to quiver and pull on its chain. Every attempt Geralt made to investigate ended in wandering around the cemetery aimlessly with no scent, no trail, and no sound to follow.

Geralt drew up from the catacomb floor, dusting off the dirt from his jerkin and the medallion finally still along its chain, he understood there was a suspect, for even as the woman stood before him, she possessed neither the scent of a human, vampire, or elf. Had he not inadvertently injured her, she would have remained undetected, but now her blood hung in the air, causing Regis to lust.

But the medallion told him enough.

Fixing his scowl onto the vampire, Geralt muttered. " _Well_? Who the hell was that?"

"A crafty woman," Regis sighed with a shake of his head. He leaned against the sarcophagus nearby and expressed a rictus of pain in silence.

An interruption of sobriety never ended well for anyone.

_Not good._

"Are you going to be alright?" the witcher asked, flexing his hands should he need to draw his sword or flee.

"Yes, Geralt."

"Mhm," he grunted, handing him a handkerchief for the blood still on his friend's mouth. "What else?"

After a moment, the vampire admitted softly. "I had no knowledge there would be blood in her mouth, truly."

The witcher threw his arms out, gesturing with his proverbial rolling motion. "You didn't  _smell_ it? I find that hard to believe."

 _Did he?_ he wondered. Her scent didn't pick up until after he stunned her with the Aard Sign.

"I would not have allowed it."

"So you  _didn't_ catch a whiff of blood?"

"Remarkably no. Until I tasted her blood, she smelled unassuming, like  _nothing._ She makes quite a ruckus every time we met, had she not, I would have never noticed her. Pardon my candidness, but she doesn't taste like a human either."

The witcher narrowed his eyes at the fondness affecting the undertows of Regis' voice. It must be the lust talking.

"Enlighten me," Geralt grumbled for the sake of understanding. "What did she taste like?"

Regis looked across, towards the tunnel she had fled to. Still, her blood hung thick in the air like an intoxicating perfume, which made his own body respond fervidly. It mottled the floor in collections of dark droplets, brush strokes, and lingered in his mouth, warming his chest and loins. His fangs still throbbed painfully. Her blood, how she felt pressed against him and in his arms, nothing else crowded his mind. He wanted to see her again. He had to even despite the witcher's inevitable objections. For if Geralt had not arrived, Regis' teeth would not have been the only anatomical parts he plunged into her.

"Peaches," the vampire chuckled, staring unseeingly towards the tunnel. "Ripe, summer peaches."

"Not funny, Regis."

"No, of course, now is not the time for humor."

" _Why_ would she want to do that _?_ Last I heard people weren't jumping in line to allow a vampire to sink his teeth into their necks and I worry with your  _complicated_ history, this will end unfavorably, for us both. We have more dire needs at hand.  _Dettlaff,_ for example, is still being blackmailed, is still in hiding, and if we don't find Rhenawedd in time..." he broke off.

"She wants something," Regis muttered pensively, saying the exact words Geralt was thinking. "I cannot fathom what. However, you are right. We have more pressing matters to attend to, like finding Rhenawedd."

Regis sat the napkin aside and looked down. Amidst their strife, Laz had dropped something. Kneeling, he picked the material and turned it over in his hands; his glove.

Geralt stepped forward for a closer look. His expression darkened.

Without looking up, the witcher muttered with a frown. "You told me the dire wolf took this from you at Tesham Mutna."

That was before the vampire made his promise to Lazarus. A promise he intended to keep if he wanted to see her again...

Geralt stepped closer.

"What are you not telling me?"


	12. Vendetta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laz fights the change. An unlikely individual searches for her.

_Not here..._ she chanted internally,   _Not here..._

Enough hours had passed as she trudged slowly through the woods, to the point her cloak and clothing were no longer wet from swimming, but now sodden with blood. Sharp bramble tugged at her incessantly through the thicket and scratched at her face and arms. Branches snagged her hair, twigs snapped noisily beneath her boots but progress was being made and it if the further she became, to more likely it was to change safely and undetected.

Walking every which way as long as it took her away from the cemetery, while continuously stalling the change, a tremor had dislocated both her shoulders, rendering her arms lifeless at her sides. Thus, the branches and the bramble clawed at her perpetually, unable to pry herself free from their spindly grasps. A trail of blood and a worn, arbitrary path followed her aimless traipse. Swimming across the lake had only throw off her scent momentarily, but enough time had past. A few times, she stopped and listened, listening to only silence. No one was coming.

The blood, black in the nightfall, painted her mouth, chin and ran down the length of her chest. Though it had slowed substantially, it was far from over and stained her chemise in dark saturated swaths. She licked her teeth clean and spat.

As she entered a suitable clearing, watching her step, she hadn't noticed the golden swell of light supplied by a wealthy fire, nor the group of men that surrounded. Their voices were muffled, but cheery from sloshing tankards and empty bottles of peppered vodka strewn about. A skewered boar roasted over the fire, the split skin blistering above the licking flames.

She stumbled out of the tree line and stopped.

_Not here._

She turned around.

"Oi!" one of the men shouted, spotting her immediately. "Is that the witcher?"

 _I just need to get back into the treeline._ Her legs trembled beneath her with barely the strength to take another step.

"Nay, ye twit. The witcher's a man." another replied. "That's just some drunken lass."

"'Ello, missy!" the first shouted in sing-song.

_The treeline..._

Laz grimaced as another tremor popped her bones. Unable to stand any longer, she sank weakly to the ground where tiny pebbles bit into her knees. Two shadows stretched across the earth as the men rose and approached her.

_Not here._

_"'_ Scuse me!" the first one sang again, heavily inebriated.

"Oooooh, she is well into her cups, Ike. Look how she can barely stand."

"Aye, she's all cut up, too." One noticed, closer now.

"A bit bloody, yeah?"

"Terribly. Prolly ran into a pack of boars."

"C'mere, lass." One of the men came to her side and hauled her up. "Let us take you to the fire and have a look at ya."

Her protest was a wet cough that bubbled around her mouth. With her head hung low, she was half-dragged, half-walked to the camp.

The crew was a medley bunch of tattoos, a variety of armor, and shields with the heraldic design crudely scratched out. Some were bald with fires light shining against their scalp. Others had dirty mops of red or brown hair, hideous scars across their faces, and teeth sneering and yellow.

_Bandits and deserters._

Another jarring tremor tore through her.

_Not here._

Once they reached the perimeter of the fire, the rest of the men noticed her.

"What do we 'ave here?"

"A lush!" cackled the man walking alongside her. "Got herself caught up in the wild."

"That's no lush, you idiot. She has consumption! Stop touching her!"

They immediately dropped her. The hard earth flew up and punched her in the chest, knocking the air from her lungs. Her cloak billowed and fluttered, coming to rest where she lay momentarily stunned.

Too weak to pick herself back up with the agony so deeply rooted in her appendages and with her shoulders inoperable, she lay there like an invalid, allowing the blood to spill from her lips into a black puddle. As it grew, she watched her fire dance upon the inky reflection.

"Looks like she's had it a bit rough."

"Death's prolly kissin' her now…" another said softly.

A refraction of the fire raced across an unsheathed dagger. The holder stood and flipped the blade into his palm, offering the hilt to one of the men behind her.

"Aye, put the bitch outta her misery, will ya? She's souring the mood."

"Wait, wait, wait!" Another exclaimed.

Someone grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her face out of the dirt.

Laz grimaced.

"I can clean her up, quite comely looking once the blood washes away. We could all have a turn?"

"She has consumption, you dolt."

"Should be good, long as he doesn't kiss her on the mouf."

"Aye, she does have the same hair color as that bastard witcher."

Someone unseen spat in anger. "Fuck the witcher."

"Yeah, fuck that mutant freak, and fuck 'er! Lets string up her, make her look nice and pretty for the duchess, eh?"

"No," Laz grimaced then howled when he gripped her shoulders, forcing her to her feet. They steered her towards a tent.

_Now! Do it now!_

Laz let go, releasing a throaty moan.

The stifling she had held up to that point dropped, but the pain did not crash into her as suspected. In fact, nothing happened. It was stunted, resonating back and forth through, sharp and anxious, with nowhere to go.

They shoved her again, but her legs hadn't the speed to catch up nor remain upright. She fell, landing on her knees with a jarring impact and slouching like a drunk. Her chin dropped into her chest, a viscous thread of bloody drool stretched from her lips, more blood poured from her nose. The pain screamed and resonated.

_Screaming…_

_Screaming….!_

But Laz didn't make a sound. The strength and ardor she sustained to keep from changing exhausted her to the point she was  _stuck._

She'd stalled it too long.

_I'm bleeding internally. My bones are breaking. My heartbeat is slowing._

_If I cannot change, I will die._

If she could feel anything more than agony, it would have been cold, dark fear. But alas, she could not decipher emotions beyond her breaking bones and taut skin.

Someone reached down and tossed the length of her cloak aside then yanked her trousers down, roughly exposing her backside, then pushed her again. Laz lurched forward, falling onto her stomach. She twisted her hips, but the man was quick to wrench her back into position.

She cried out a wet shriek.

A buckled jingled, her legs were roughly shoved apart.

There was hollow thunk, a long whizzing report which abruptly concluded with a short thud.

The jingling stopped. The man behind her fell over like a heap of grain.

Everyone in the campsite went unnaturally silent and still.

" _To w_ _eapons!"_ a man bawled.

The campsite suddenly exploded in activity.

Dazed, she slid her gaze over, still fighting to bring her knees back together, meeting no resistance, she rolled onto her back and ineptly tugged at her pants. If she had to, she would run without them.

Still struggling to pull her pants up, a sharp pain struck her gut. She quickly pulled herself to her knees and heaved. Blood and dark pulp splashed onto the ground in a grisly red puddle.

A man with an unbuckled belt lay across the ground behind her, dead, with an arrow protruding from one of his eye sockets. A second man screamed and fell into the dirt several paces a way, more arrows stuck out from his back.

The bandits, spurred into action all at once, brandished swords, axes, and crossbows. The archers retreating across the campfire, racing from the tree line where the offensive arrows launched out of. Others raised their shields, edging closer towards the onslaught.

Amidst her own battle of concerns, Laz puked again What happened around her concern.

The world, in its colorful array and horrific sounds, dulled and muffled.

_I'm going to die. I'm going to die._

_Not here._

_No, not here._

"Oh, bloody hell!" someone spat.

One of the archers planted a foot against his crossbow, notching an arrow, then stretching back the bow while several of the men ran towards the treeline. He blindly aimed and fired into the darkness. A man standing on the perimeter suddenly choked, twirled around like a dancer thrown in a single spin, then slumped onto the dirt. A deep red smile carved across his throat, a spew of blood rained.

A shadow traced the edges of the campsite, moving as swiftly as a wraith. Not even Laz could train her eyes on it. Beyond the chaos elicited from the shouting bandits, the stretching crossbows, hissing arrows and clashing steel, the assailant was unnaturally silent. A swordsman brave enough to abandon the light of the fire, disappeared into the darkness only to turn back screaming, it was cut short the moment an entire sword's length burst from his chest. The blade retracted, and a force shoved the wounded swordsman away with a tall boot, revealing the stalking shadow, the swordbearer; Geralt of Rivia.

The crescent moon flashed across the sword, an arrow bounced off the steel, careening through the air like a flung twig. A shield-bearer charged, swinging an ax down with a shout. More arrows sliced through the air, all furiously aimed at the white-haired man. The witcher, moving lithely and without hesitation, parried, throwing the man from his footing. The arrows fell tandemly in a row, lodging into the dirt inches from the witcher's heel. Stumbling, the shield gave away from its bearer and suddenly, the bandit lost an arm, and then a head. Before any of the appendages fell to the ground, Geralt was already on the other side of the camp, closing in.

The closer the witcher came to the fire, the more bodies fell, the more brutal each fatal blow became. The louder the screams rose.

The third wave of pain clawed up her spine razor sharp, sinking deep like an axe. Laz curled up, retching violently, while a bloodied man collapsed beside her, wailing and reaching for….  _his legs were gone_ , only two bloody stumps remained. The blood from her retching, blood spurting from the cleaved limbs, slashed throats, and missing heads painted the campsite. The moon danced upon its blacken, glistening surfice. Embers rose from the fire, dancing with the stars. Cries were cut short. The archers were dispatched, unable to free their short swords in time before the witcher's blade fell upon them. Men choking on their own blood, gurgling and crying out eventually ran out of breath and then life.

Laz was…

_Laz was dying, as well…_

Horror resounded within and all around her. Never before had she fought a change. Like a harmonious rhythm, it was allowed to come and go uninterrupted, now it was utterly shattered.

_How could she be so stupid? So reckless?_

She fell onto her back, staring at the beautiful Toussaint night sky and its spray of stars, much like how she found Keira sprawled along Fyke Isle.

The visions were wrong; Geralt of Rivia had nothing to do with her demise.  _She_  would cut herself down. Perhaps this  _was a_ curse. If this was truly the work of Keira Metz, why would she allow such agony to befall her? Was this part of who she was? Laz would never know.

_She did this to you…. Made you who you are._

Regis...

_Your mother... a witch…_

Regis...

Laz closed her eyes as the sky blurred with unshed tears, when she opened them, Geralt's scowling countenance awaited her. His menacing sword held down at his side glowed hot like forging iron. The fire's light glittered in his reptilian eyes, embodying their own hellish flame with scribed runes running the length of the sword. Everything about him was infernal. He leaned over.

"Are you going to make it?"

Laz swallowed and nodded faintly, shutting her eyes again. There was no way to tell definitively whether she would survive or perish like the many lackeys about the campsite.

The sword slid back into its scabbard.

Geralt knelt beside her and, after carefully pulling her trousers up and restoring her dignity, slipped his arms beneath her and scooped her up. Lifted from her own mess, if she had the strength and breath to protest, she would have hissed that he leave her be; to be in the arms of a witcher was to be in the arms of the enemy.

He stepped over the dismembered bandits strewn about and crossed towards the treeline. Well past it, and into the dark thicket, a chestnut mare awaited them.

Held in his arms and unable to stare at the face of her mother's killer, she watched the two pommels jut over a broad shoulder strapped in rough leather and sturdy belts. Laz imagined him at Fyke Isle for a moment. Which of the pommels did he hold when he struck Keira down? Or did he entertain his activity by a small hunting knife, prolonging the inevitable one small but devastating cut at a time?

_Fate._

What a cruel and comical mistress. Laz felt like laughing  _and_ crying for if it hadn't been this witcher, this  _Geralt of Rivia_ , with hair white as the moon and venomous yellow eyes that had followed her for hours, remaining undetected, the bandits would have successfully compromised her.

This so called _Gift_ nearly cost her her life.

 _This curs_ —

Shutting her eyes tightly, she didn't allow the thought to manifest into existence.

But why,  _why_  would he do such a thing when she attacked him? When she blindsided Regis' so shamelessly? Yes, it was clear the first day crossing paths with the witcher and his vampire friend.  _A recovering addict_  was mentioned. She knew she was about to end his abstinence, which gave Geralt every reason to run her off and hope she never returned. Instead, he went out and retrieved her.

He stuck a tall boot in the left stirrup, prepared his footing and lifted, sweeping his leg fluidly and alighting upon the saddle.

Successfully mounted, Geralt clicked his mare into a slow walk. Sitting in the dip of his lap, her legs draped across his firm thighs, while her feet bounced off the side in tandem with the horse's trot.

As an endless conveyor of tree tops drifted past, Laz asked. "Where are we going?"

"Not back to the cemetery," Geralt muttered stiffly.

He adjusted the reins with one hand and his hold across her upper back with the other.

"To Corvo Bianco."

Laz wasn't sure where that could be but it sounded familiar. Looking down, her thin chemise stuck to her figure began to dry, stiffening from so much blood. If he was off put by the gore she was slathered in, he made no indication, neither turning his head away to breathe air not fouled with the metallic tang, nor being wary on where to place his hands upon her twisted, clammy limbs and blood-soaked clothing.

"And Regis…?"

Geralt wouldn't say.

Several minutes passed, and the witcher interrupted it abruptly.

"What you did was not only stupid but very dangerous." he grumbled, "It's his choice not to consume blood. Do not take that away from him."

 _A vampire who refuses to drink blood._ Not entirely what she expected, of course, but it did not interrupt her plans the least.

"I'm not taking anything from him," she lied. "And you're wrong about him being dangerous; Regis is good."

"He  _is_ good, even if you barely know him," he paused, scowling pensively. "And if not him, there's another... Just listen to me. Regis might be good, but his friends are not."

_Did he mean another vampire?_

Laz didn't want to press the issue, worried that her curiosity would elicit suspicion, even if she was eager to know more. She returned to her present dilemma; the witcher. Here, in Gerat's lap, of all places to be… How did her night end so comically backward? The days preceding were of lengthy planning and devising for the moment to either run off the witcher or tear him apart with her teeth. Instead,  _she_  was the one to have fled, and  _she_  was the one tearing herself apart.

And to be saved by the very being she adamantly despised only conjured a far greater conflict within.

 _If not for him.._ her thoughts broke off.

Despite her efforts and feelings towards the witcher, disdain did not chew at her insides; she was grateful, albeit, never would she admit that.

Taking her silence for insolence, the wither continued.

"As I'm sure you know by orders of Duchess Anna Henrietta, I am to hunt down the thing butchering knights. Regis is helping me, and I can't have him distracted, especially by issues from the past."

"Why is that?"

"It's too dangerous. You could get hurt."

 _I'm already hurt,_ her eyes were still closed, ignoring how, despite the hard leather and cold mail, there was warming tingle that accompanied their contact. If this was his way to get her to trust him, to lower her guard so he could seep into her skin and poison her from the inside out, Laz would not allow it. She heard enough about witchers to know they were more than just snake eyes and two swords.

"Hey," he nudged her. "Try to stay awake."

"Why," she croaked, cracking her eyes open.

"You've lost a lot of blood and you're tired, I know but you can't sleep."

The mare chewed her bit, chuffing and plodding through the bracken and underbrush.

Begrudgingly, Laz obeyed and kept her eyes open towards the thin, smiling moon descending between the trees. Dawn was approaching.

"Did the bandits do this to you?" Geralt inquired, trying to keep her awake.

"I did this to myself."

She met the serpent's gaze, who stared at her for a moment, then looked ahead as the mare continued on. The indifference within his expression was clear as the night sky and just as endless. Being utterly and humiliatingly at the witcher's will and mercy, unable to wrench herself from his arms and flee, she was a hapless insect caught in a spider's web. Or perhaps she was a field mouse, caught by a python while it slowly constricted around her?

"That's one way of taking responsibility," he said, misinterpreting her response.

He adjusted the arm braced against her back more comfortably, but doing so brought her closer. A warmer tingle surged through her, vibrating her body pleasantly. As sleep pulled her down and away from the churring crickets and tree frogs, from the yellow eyes and the green motes that were drifting fireflies, Geralt said.

"What was her name?"

The shock of the question jarred her awake. Her mouth, which had been slick with blood for the better part of the night, suddenly went dry and her heart crawled weakly into her throat. The last place to discuss a vendetta was in the very arms of the one who caused it. The clear Toussaint night sky began to lighten near the horizon with columns of pinks and ruddy oranges stretching with the early blushes of dawn.

She ignored him.

"This person you claim I killed," he continued, undeterred. "Your mother, you said. Does she have a name?"

The was a number of reasons she wanted to remain quiet; firstly, her weakened state. Secondly, she hadn't the energy to be reminded and thus angry, not now.

With her head lulling back against her shoulders, she eyed the witcher beneath thick lashes and used the last of her strength to ask,

"Have you ever visited Midcopse?"

She feared his answer as soon as she uttered it.

"Many times."

"For monsters?"

"A few..."

A moment passed. It was getting harder to breathe. She was uncomfortable suddenly, and no longer could she feel the tingle, but she pressed on.

"What about witches?" her whisper trembled.

He looked down at her, withholding his answers, suffocating her with silence.

_Please, say no. Please, please. Let me be wrong._

"Yes, one."

Laz closed her eyes, freeing a hot tear that disappeared in the pale hair around her temple. She tried to form the next question, but her chin trembled terribly and her throat threatened to close like a fist. Each breath was a struggle.

The witcher watched her while dawn lightened the sky behind them.

"Where is she now?" a cold chill slid down her spine. She felt like she might throw up again.

Geralt set his jaw, then sighed. "We came to a disagreement a while back. I tried reasoning with her but, she was stubborn and wouldn't listen. Are you feeling alright?"

Laz meant to say  _What happened to her?_ but her lips wouldn't work and her voice caught in her throat.

"Hey?" the witcher sounded far away.

A black oblivion closed rapidly upon her bringing with it a frigid touch. It poured into her limbs, weighing them down, numbing them. Paralyzed, she shut her eyes. She didn't want to fight to keep them open anymore. She was so tired and oh, gods, she missed Keira so much.

"Hey! Open your eyes! Wake up!"

Laz tried.

Her eyes rolled into the back of her head, revealing beneath the eerie white shot with blood vessels. She started to shiver, then she began to thrash violently in his arms. Pink froth foamed over her lips and spilled over as the tremor severely worsened. Her head bucked, her arms flailed. Both hands were curled into claws. He could barely hold onto her, abandoning the reins to hold down her legs.

The blood loss.

The clammy skin.

It was a hypovolemic shock.

Snatching the reins back and fighting to keep both of them in the saddle, Geralt spurred the chestnut mare into a thunderous gallop. They broke free from the tree line, revealing the undulating slopes of vineyards and Corvo Bianco amid early dawn.


	13. Dettlaff & Regis

As expected, Regis felt the presence of Dettlaff long before his physical apparition revealed itself. The higher vampire had a way of knowing where and when to come to Regis when time was right. Therein his solitary lair after a short nap, the barber-surgeon glanced up from his reading the moment Dettlaff quietly ascended the mezzanine. His proverbial scowl was strained around piercing blue eyes and his mouth was always set thin. Even still, the effects of his missing lover and the uncertainty set in motion left the vampire's stern expression quite troubled. Regis had never seen Dettlaff look so lost and despondent, ever.

Many would see before them the Beast of Beauclair―even though they were not necessarily wrong―to Regis, he saw not an animal but a dear friend; one not capable of such mindless slaying unless something horrific dwelled in the undertows of his incentive; like blackmail, as Regis and Geralt recently discovered. The barber-surgeon hoped they could locate Rhenawedd in time, pull the leverage out from beneath the mastermind's feet, and thus free Dettlaff from this chessboard of slaughter.

The blue-eyed vampire looked about, seeing things he'd seen before a hundred different times before. The skeleton who wore a hat still resided by his work bench, the multiple tomes and studies splayed open or tucked away in their shelving to gather dust or create quiet seclusions for the spiders. Cobwebs, columns of cracked stones, and dancing flames positioned upon the sarcophagus still provided the eerie catacomb's ambiance Regis found rather charming.

There was one thing different, and it had not gone unnoticed by the sharp blue eyes that saw through everything; the trickles of blood.

In their silence, plenty was uttered and interpreted. Whatever it was that Dettlaff needed, Regis would provide, no questions asked. It was why he was here after all. Once Rhennawedd was found, the culprits would be brought to court where they would be judged for all their malicious intent and injustice. In theory, Dettlaff could be forgiven and both higher vampires could return to their quiet lives once more. So long as Geralt provided adequate reasoning before the duchy, which Regis gave no doubt.

"Good evening," Regis broke the silence was sincerity.

Dettlaff did not respond with his own courtesies, as expected. There were much more matters to concern himself with than deigning into the trivial behavior humans so thoroughly practiced themselves, like  _Hello,_ or  _How are you faring? Yes, let us speak of the weather._

"Where is the witcher?" inquired Dettlaff's grave voice.

"Back on the Path, as they say," said Regis.

"And Rhenawedd?"

"Still searching for her, Dettlaff. I assure you, Geralt means well."

The last they spoke, they were at the toy shop where―after some patience―he requested Dettlaff to hold off on the killing while Geralt worked. Time was of the utmost essence decidedly. The duchy was becoming anxious and impatient the longer the murderer remained unnamed, unchained, and alive. From the letters Geralt found at the shop, Regis knew Dettlaff was also on a very strict schedule. While the witcher set out to gather clues and inform the Duchess of any new leads, Regis kept an ear pricked himself while he perpetually assured Dettlaff the witcher only meant to help.

Then there was this newest  _guest_ which his groin throbbed by even the thought. What was her part in this convoluted mishap that ensnared all that tread too close? Was Geralt correct in his suspicions, that Lazarus was just a distraction? Or worse, a beautiful happenstance he thought of consecutively and without end? Were she a distraction, she could easily disregard. Anything more, than Regis was meddling in the arcana affairs of fate and destiny. Which seemed so fitting now that Geralt was once more  _back on the Path_ and in Toussaint, no less.

Regis sighed pensively, lost in his thoughts. Her physiognomy was the least of his worries. While her nature was unorthodox, yes. Dangerous, no.  _She_ was not dangerous but  _her blood was._ So much so, that it trembled the very foundations of Regis' abstinence, lulled him to sleep like a potent elixir. It exalted him, then drowned him in euphoria, and brought him to the brink of crippling pleasure without the ritual activities that normally accompanied such physical elation.

_...and as rich and smooth as peach mead._

Regis looked at Dettlaff. There were no secrets between the blood brothers. As always, and by no means a disadvantage, Dettlaff knew what Regis was thinking, and vice versa. The darker haired vampire closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose.

"Whose blood have you tasted?" Dettlaff asked, suddenly opening his eyes.

The time to explain himself had come. What Dettlaff smelled still permeated the air like a garden ripe of blossoms. It was everywhere. It lingered long after she made her escape and still sat thick and heady on Regis' tongue. It also went to say, the  _other_ effects were waning, but terribly slow, which was why he was seated with a book in his lap.

With all things considered, certainly his principles, a werewolf caught up a vampire's campaign only added fuel to this proverbial fire.

Regis sighed, smiling faintly. He knew well enough Dettlaff was not chastising him, even if the blue-eyed vampire's countenance relayed very little expression. He was all that remained of his family and would forever be his dearest friend. Whether that was the blood they shared speaking, or the gratitude for which he owed his friend for restoring him from a puddle of blood, he wasn't sure. As it was, there was no secrets unknown between the two thus far and he had no intentions breaking that streak now.

Dettlaff knew, with or without Regis' confirmation his convictions had been challenged.

"I was tricked," he explained straightening his shoulders and tilting his chin so that his proud nose pointed upward. "I did not willingly drink anyone's blood."

Still, he wasn't sure how to explain his most recent error. After committing himself to abstinence, Regis implored his friend to do the same, which Dettlaff intended to implicate, until the most recent transgressions that forced his hand. It was a kiss filled with blood, not the first time such an occurrence had happened, but it was far more complicated than all the others because there were  _changes._  A quickening in his veins, loins, and tongue had taken root. His flesh tingled with chills ever so often, as if something alive and wandering coursed beneath his skin. His eyesight was sharper, acuter than before. And the stiffening he endured thereafter Tesham Mutna, which should have taken more than a fortnight to recover from, was gone. But such effects could easily be attributed to consumption of human blood―for a vampire, especially― even if they appeared hazardously more potent than before. Unless it was due to the length of his sobriety that caused the blood to taste so sweet and concentrated?

Before he could answer, his friend turned and the leather trench coat he wore swept out gently like a bat's wing. He searched the catacomb for the source of the aroma.

"It's everywhere," added Dettlaff, "In the stones, amplified by the fire, I can almost taste it."

He turned around and eyed Regis, there was a hint of pride in his voice.

"But I smell it prominently from you as if  _you're_ the source. What I don't know is from whom or  _what._ It doesn't smell human. I'll ask again, whose blood have you drank?"

Regis cleared his throat. "I believe a werewolf has taken a great deal of interest in me."

The blue eyes knitted with concern. "A werewolf? This is not a werewolf, Regis. It does not smell like dog. It smells like―"

"Peaches, yes. I am well aware."

"And what of your principles?"

Regis lifted his black eyes to stare evenly at the blue-white gaze of his blood brother. "Steadfast. However, at the moment, I neither had the sense nor the desire to think past her, and that was before I realized there was blood hidden behind her lips."

" _Her_ _?"_

"As far as I could tell. She did wear a chemise and a pair of wrinkled pants. I could be mistaken, we only shared a kissed."

"Go on, Regis. You have piqued my interest."

At any other time, under many different circumstances, Regis knew Dettlaff would have grinned with amusement. But with the current transgressions, the presence of the witcher, and the looming threats conjured by an unknown blackmailer, humor ran dry.

"Very well." the barber-surgeon sighed, "Long white hair, slender, willowy stature indicative of the fairer sex, and possesses a different color in each eye. Bluish-green and ale gold. Have you seen her?"

The other vampire shook his dark head, confirming Regis' suspicions.

"I fathom she's been here for some time." Regis continued, "Yet, I do not recall ever crossing paths with her."

Dettlaff took a seat near the hat-wearing skeleton, muttering gravely. "Higher vampires do not tend to concern themselves with the lesser species. I, for one, have trouble understanding them. Perhaps you hadn't noticed her until now. Is she bothering you?"

"Not in the least."

A silence encompassed them as Dettlaff waited quietly for him to continue.

For once, Regis was not sure if he should reveal to Dettlaff the power he felt surging through him once he imbibed her blood or the lucid dreams that took him to a place with towering trees that rivaled the height of the clouds; how, within these dreams, she emerged from one of these colossal trunks that could swallow half of Toussaint comfortably. With her hair flowing, legs tanned and bared, dressed in ribbons of transparent silk and flowers, barely hiding her charms like a wood nymph. With each step, the earth rumbled and quaked. Vines stretched their leaves to caress her ankles, like a sunflower watching the sun, colorful blossoms tilted their petals towards her, leaning and straining their tiny leaves for a touch.

The dream had revealed itself after he'd lay down in hopes to sleep off the effects of her blood and quell the lingering thirst. It pained him greatly to send her away, like the little flowers, his body and senses leaned and strained to touch, taste, and feel her. Moreover, there were other physical attributes, differences within the dreams that did not correlate directly with Lazarus' physically properties and characteristics which he had seen with his own eyes.

The dream was trying to tell him something. He needed the witcher's help, but knew from experience, Geralt was not apt with helping monsters in need, that is to say,  _if_ Lazarus was a monster, at all.

Until proven otherwise, Regis would assume she was a werewolf. There was not much else to go off of. Furthermore, Regis needed to speak to Geralt about Laz's adoptive mother and what part she played in bringing up a child like Lazarus. Sorcerers and sorceresses could not sire nor bear children naturally. It could very well be that her mother found her as an orphan and took her in. Perhaps Laz's true parents could not stomach the changes in their daughter and turned to abandonment.

"Dettlaff," Regis said softly, staring across at the table where Lazarus had pulled him close for an intoxicating kiss and dropped his glove. "When was the last full moon?"

The dark-crown of hair lowered to stare at the floor in thought, "Ten days ago, I believe."

"Three days ago I visited Tesham Mutna."

Dettlaff said nothing, trying to understand how the two statements were relative.

"Werewolves, if I recall correctly," Regis said, mostly to himself, "Cannot change without a full moon."

"There is only one known werewolf in Toussaint, and I believe it is a male." Dettlaff corrected. "Perhaps speak with him about your newfound flame."

What did Geralt think? Did he also assume she was merely a werewolf who had yet to be caught mauling innocents within the shadowy thicket? After returning his glove, Regis could no longer pretend her arrival was mere happenstance. Geralt was sharp-witted. It was only a matter of time if the witcher hadn't concluded it already.  _The wolf, the woman, and his glove._

_Peaches…_

What on this earth had blood that tasted like peaches?

And the dreams, what did those mean...

Both higher vampires looked up at once, Dettlaff who was patiently waiting, and Regis who was desperately trying to put the pieces together, simultaneously sensed the approaching thunder of hooves.

"The Witcher," his friend hissed, rising to his feet. "Regis, you must tell him to work faster. Find Rhenawedd!" Not waiting for a response, Dettlaff vanished into blood-red smoke just as the witcher came marching down the stairs and into the belly of the subterranean room.

"Regis?" the witcher's gruff voice bounced off the stone walls as he searched for the vampire. "Regis!"

"I'm here, Geralt." Regis stood carefully, setting the book aside. "What seems to be the matter?"

The witcher paused at the foot of the stairs, wearing a jerkin heavily stained with dark fluid that sweetened the air with ripe peaches. "Can you still perform your duties as a barber-surgeon?"

"Of course I can."

"Good, I need you at Corvo Bianco," Geralt was already turning to head back up the tunnel, shouting. "I will fill you in on the way. Right now,  _we need to go._ "


	14. Natural Simplicity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Against the witcher's behest, Regis tends to Laz uniquely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the witcher realm, particularly the literature, vampires are born, not "made." After the conjunction, like many fiends and apparitions, they entered Geralts plane. With that being said, I was unsatisfied because even across all platforms, there was little known about higher vampires. So I played with the idea and tweaked some of the rules. In the book, Regis declines drinking. In the game, you saw for yourself Geralt and our favorite barber-surgeon share a bottle of mandrake. Thus I felt compelled to make little differences of my own accord for the sake of the story and some added drama with our current comprehension of Vampire lore unrelated to Witcher. I hope it does not offput anyone with my doing so. I will still try to keep closely to both the books and the story nonetheless (so long as it does not conflict too terrible between the two)
> 
> I hope y'all enjoy this piece as much as I enjoy sharing it with you.
> 
> ONWARDS!! -brandishes sword-

Upon arrival, the challenge for Regis was finding a surface _not_ stained with blood.

In the guest bedroom on the second floor of Geralt's estate and vineyard, the moment the vampire crossed the threshold the smell of peaches hit him like a warm, summer gale and it pained him greatly. His mind reeled, his vision oscilitated likened to being struck to the head by a hammer.

_I have my principles. I am in control._

With a sobering respire, Regis collected himself. Even still, like the flowers from his dream, he strained at the mouth of the doorway, claws gripping its frame until the wood splintered around his fingertips. The need to be near her, to close the distance was debilitating, betraying he had not successful slept off his bloodlust. Her taste, though not on his tongue, still resonated through him like a lingering fever.

"Are you alright, Regis?" the witcher eyed him. "If this is too much… just show me how and I can do it myself."

_I have my principles. I am in control._

"I'll be fine," assured the vampire. Once in full authority of his faculties, he straightened up, squaring his shoulders and reinstated his haughty posture. "What's her condition?"

"Dying."

Regis roved his eyes from one wound to another, and another, across her contorted body and the spread of her hair, once a white flame, now stiff from encrusted blood over an equally ruined pillow.

Geralt was not far off with his statement; a fleder, known for mutilating its prey, could have very well committed this act.

Amidst sheets that were once white was Lazarus. She was strewn along her back like a cast-aside doll, broken with limbs positioned and angled in such a way it caused even Regis to wince. She looked uncomfortable, poised even, in a bodily rictus and barely breathing.  Had a vampire and a witcher not stood before her, anyone else would have presumed she was dead and in full rigor mortis.

On his right, a bloody handprint marred the surface of an opened window. A futile attempt to air out the room. Off to the side were her tall boots caked in mud and broken twigs. Boot prints and brush strokes of crimson ruined the floor, and much of everything else. The room was dark, sans the pale morning light spilling into the dwelling and a single candle light upon a table.

"When I happened upon the campsite, they'd been drinking." said the witcher. "Guess the revelry brought out the worst of them. Suppose they knew she was dying, and couldn’t be saved. Thought it best to get the most out of a girl unable to defend herself.”

A muscle in the barber-surgeon's jaw ticked. "Where are they now?"

"Taken care of," the witcher said darkly, then went to explain the extent of her injuries.

Regis felt a disturbing sense of relief, surmising confidently Geralt had dispatched them in his most signature fashion.

Streaks of dirt and clinging bracken stained the fabric of her chemise, competing which could soil the material more than the blood already had. Not even her brown trousers lasted through whatever hell she was dragged from. He saw her belt unbuckled and the opening of her trousers also undone.

"Anything else?"

There wasn't.

"I can summon a servant and hope her body doesn't reject the blood," the witcher continued, shaking his head shamefully. "I would give her mine if not that witcher's blood is toxic. Even if Marlene is willing, which I fear, she is too old to survive the transfusion. I don't want to risk it. I can find a volunteer, I just need you to conduct the transfusion."

"Another timeless and imperative practice left out of witcher’s academics.” Regis muttered dryly. “How am I not surprised.”

Geralt narrowed his whiskey-colored eyes, ignoring the quip. "I have a corvine quill and ox urethra prepared and sterilized."

"There's no need," the vampire muttered, stepping away from the door. "We already have a donor and we won't need such tools."

"We do?… _we won't?_ "

Regis removed his leather medical bag, then his gloves and began unbuttoning his dark doublet. His movement was methodical, slow, and with a tinge of hesitation. After all, he was a barber surgeon, the very reason Geralt summoned him. In his time, he'd seen torrents of blood, some for greater purposes, others far from it. What made this moment so consequential? What made this amount of blood loss that surrounded him far more significant?

Was it her pleasant, unprecedented fragrance or because he knew if she died, that would be the end of it all? Her blood was special; _she_ was special. He couldn't allow such a being to be wasted away by sadistic bandits, _by humans._

_No, it was not that._

"Wait, what are you doing?" Geralt caught him by the arm as he stepped forward. "You mean yourself?"

Regis knew why; the significant reason was the quantity.

"As you know, vampires blood is highly regenerative," the barber-surgeon explained, glancing down at the hand that still gripped him then to its owner. "We run the risk of acute kidney failure, among many other life-threatening complications should we gamble with a foreign haemoglobin. Vampire blood is also universal. Her body will not reject it but yield utterly and willingly. That is simply the nature of it. Please, release me."

The amount it would take to sustain her health would be substantial and would irrevocably bind them, possibly change her if he gave her too much, considering she was on the brink of death as is. The risk was something infinite and abysmal. Not even sleep could wear away the effects. His viral blood would take root as if it had claimed another body, and would function as an extension of his senses and being. A considerate and irreversible proposition was upon him. If he mentioned this to the witcher...

 _No,_ _this was the only way to save her life._

Geralt obliged, allowing Regis to peel away his doublet and dress down into a loose-fitted under blouse and his trousers. He rolled up the sleeves as a pensive silence consumed the room.

"I also know what happens when you share too much with a human," the witcher said gravely. "Are you sure about this?"  To solidify his statement, he gave the room a once over, to the substantial blood loss and its derived mess. He glanced back with a telling look.

 _Human_ , the barber-surgeon smiled knowingly.

"Don't you think we have enough vampires running around Beauclair, Regis? Alps, bruxae, katakans, fleders? Considering my entire presence here is founded on the fact that a higher vampire is murdering knights left and right, dismembering them and tossing their hacked pieces into the river."

Regis listened carefully and had every intentions of sharing his suspicions with Geralt however, now would not be an opportune time considering neither individual knew what was about to happen.

_A dying werewolf, revived by the eternal blood of a vampire._

And Regis was far too curious to see how it unfolded.

Perhaps her body could only handle her lycan mutation and his blood would do nothing more than heal it? He hoped so. Fathering a newborn vampire was a risky feat.

Then there was Dettlaff’s reaction he had to consider.

"When you went to acquire the saliva," he said, "You had a choice: kill the spotted wight or lift the curse. You made your decision, because it was the right thing to do." He turned his hand over, tracing a thumb across his wrist where beneath the pale skin blue threads traveled into the meat of his palm. “You could have cut her down, Marlene, or left her there with her affliction where she would have continued to suffer and starve, obsess over spoons and the curse. There are worse things than death, Geralt. As you are aware.”

"Except I didn't have to share blood with the wight in order to break the curse." Geralt muttered. "Nor as a result did it run the risk of turning me into one."

"But you did have to make a sacrifice. No one else could have drank the contents of the caldron and survived, only a witcher could have suffered such levels of toxicity.

Thus," Regis crossed the room to sit beside Laz on the bedside. "Fate, as you so adamantly follow, has it that a vampire should be the giver, than the receiver. No other's, like a witcher, could survive such an ordeal. The least I can do is ensure she does not consume too much, but bare in mind, I will give her all that she needs."

"What if what she needs turns her?" Geralt said stubbornly. "Then we've got a baby vampire, wild with hunger, on our hands. The river already flows with blood.”

"Then consider it fate. If things should go awry, I as a higher vampire will make the necessary decisions."

Bringing his wrist to his mouth, Regis nipped a vein with a sharp fang and suspended it over her parted lips, using his other to tilt her mouth open. He opened and closed his hand, coaxing the blood to drip liberally, landing upon her parted lips and teeth. Several droplets hit home at the back of her mouth.

A moment passed.

Her eyelids fluttered and her chest swelled, then she choked and sputtered breathlessly. Blood spattered back onto his face as she tensed up in a coughing fit, turning her head away. Regis adjusted his posture so that he was further onto the bed, then scooped her up into his arms and pulled her across his lap.

The wrist would not work. She needed to be sat upright whilst she drank.

Geralt watched, becoming quiet.

With a claw, Regis sliced open a small nick in the crook of his neck and steered her mouth against it.

As a primordial response like fight or flight, his claws lengthened, as did his fangs, ready to attack and destroy whatever caused the release of its ethereal blood. His vampirism was in full engagement.

There was initially a sharp pain for vampires whilst they shared blood, but eventually, that would be replaced with a blissful ecstasy closely tied to sexual arousal. In any other instance, a vampire would be sharing such intimacies with his or her mate. Soon Regis and Laz would be coupled and, if he wasn’t careful, a lover’s embrace. Still, he didn't want to send Geralt away. Dettlaff would sense the exchange and would likely arrive to see what was transpiring. At any rate, Regis did not want to be interrupted, using the witcher's presence as a repellent.

Laz gagged then swallowed as his blood fought its way past her throat and compelled her to drink. Finally, she quieted. Her terse expression relaxed, as did her entire body.

Regis used every bit of his centuries-old resolve not to focus on her warm mouth against his neck, working like a hungry kiss. He thought of many, many other things. That Geralt was watching, that Dettlaff somewhere in the near vicinity knew Regis was feeding another his blood. That both of his friends thoroughly disapproved of his actions but there was nothing else he could do. Give blood or watch her die and it was not in his principles to allow such a thing to happen.

Her hands came up, fisting the sleeves of his tunic tightly, holding onto Regis just as she would hold onto her fleeting life.

Fangs still extended, sharp claws carefully still, so not to puncture or tear, a thickening took to his groin. 

He thought of something else, anything else.

As she drank from him, as he cradled her close, a connection blossomed between the two, then a sickening pop and a tremor cracked against his palm that rested at her ribs. It startled them both. Gasping sharply, her head jerked back as something snapped back into place, adjusting itself accordingly as the vampire blood found its way through her and all her injuries.

It must have been painful for her body wrenched a second time without a moment’s respite.  Her fingers clutched his upper arms in a firm grip and threw her head back with a toss of bloodied hair. He held onto her while the spasms continued. She trembled and writhed, gasping and choking under a stream of sickening pops and cracks.

Geralt appeared at the bedside, "What's happening?"

Regis brought her closer, "She's healing. Don't touch her!"

He didn't mean to snarl. The witcher stepped back.

A bubbling scream, caught by tightly clenched teeth, tore through her throat and bulged the veins in her swan-like neck. Her eyes were squeezed tight, still, the tears slipped free. Regis could smell his blood within her and a swell of masculine pride throbbed his sensitive fangs. That same animalistic pride wanted to rip the chemise away, hold her down, and claim her.

_It was simply the nature of it._

Another cracking shudder erupted through her, unfurling her contorted figure, straightening her back and snapping more fractures back into place. The torn flesh sealed shut. Her pallor skin flushed ruddy and hot from the feeding and from the pain. The blood trickling from her nose came to life and receded back into her nostril like a dark tentacle fleeing into the black shadows, leaving a stain in its wake. Her tongue, red with vampire blood, licked and panted with relief now that the pain was abating.

Her eyes finally opened. Lids half-mast, Laz’s pupils were large, nearly snuffing out the gold and the blue, and glistened from the residual tears of her plight.

“Oh, I knew it,” she breathed softly, tiredly. “I knew it...”

When she realized who held her, he watched her features softened, heard her breathing relax and a smile lifted the corners of her weary lips. She pulled herself closer by using his shoulders, running her fingers through his grey hair tenderly, and met him with an equally tender kiss. He could not resist in the least, opening up willingly to her soft lips and gentle tongue. He worried his throbbing fangs would impede her efforts. But she paid careful attention to them, in fact, ran her tongue up the sensitives shafts while avoiding the sharp edges deftly.

A shudder consumed him as he wrapped his arms around her back, swallowing a throaty moan. Geralt was still in the room and was more than likely bearing witness to their affection. Regis, the higher vampire, the barber-surgeon, and over four hundred years old until this moment relished in the youthful passion of their kiss, interrupted only by her angling her head just to slid her tongue in deeper nHe brought her closer in a tender embrace, despite the witcher being nearby. His body was aflame. He regretted not sending the witcher away, not allowing himself an intimate and private moment with the woman named Lazarus.

He felt it; their eternal merge conclude itself in absolution, like the shackle of an unbreakable, infinite lock biting down, unyielding its hold until the end of days.

Now all Regis could think and feel was her.

It was simply the nature of it.


	15. Far From Afraid Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lazarus awakens and meets her second Higher Vampire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 for cptphasma; I hope things are better for you! I broke this chapter into two because the length was...well, too much for me in one sitting. So there will be a second part shortly after this. At least, I'll have it ready by tonight..

After what seemed hours, the pain had finally stopped and a soft, blissful respite claimed her mind and all its senses. Laz's consciousness came and went like a drifting fog before it thickened into a gray nothingness, once more heralding her into soundless and dreamless sleep.

Between her short moments of semi-awareness, she found herself thinking of the Pheasantry, of Ygritte and Imogen, and certainly the ire of Hawks that would befall her when she returned. She wondered if her employment was already jeopardized, even worried they would not forgive her transgressions so easily like the times before, but that fret quickly past neither finding will or desire to care what Hawks and his ire had to say.

On the fourth sunset of her recovery, Laz finally awoke from pangs of hunger. Therein the pressing shadows, in the last threads of dusk, she lay bundled comfortably beneath the warm covers. She was reluctant to move from her soft cocoon despite being so horribly ravenous.

 _If I could just lay here forever..._ Her stomach responded with a drawn out gurgle.

She stretched out her legs and arms, twisting and groaning as she awakened, and touched something firm with her foot through the blankets.

Alarmed, she jerked her head up from the pillow.

At the foot of her bed was a dark figure.

"Sssshh," they said softly.

Just as quickly as the panic stabbed her, it dulled and vanished. Lulled by the captivating tenor of the voice and the tingle she felt through the covers, she placed her head gently back onto the pillow. The figure stood; a man in a sweeping trench coat and high collar came around to her bedside and drew the covers back, until he revealed the length of her supine body. Laz stilled. The drafty room, still cooled by the opened window, kissed her bare shoulders, her legs, and seeped into the thin shift across her figure. Her skin prickled at his proximity, by wherever his gaze rove. Moreover, her blood whooshed gently in her ears. There was only one person who made her feel such afflictions, and this was not him.

Despite this and strangely, she was far from afraid.

He reached down, tracing his cold fingertips along her arm. A shudder waved through her from the sharp claws tickling her skin, coaxing her muscle to relax. The whooshing blood in her ears sang like a lullaby, sinking her further into her pillow and soft bedding.

"You're hungry, aren't you?" he said. The hand continued to trace up her arm, over her shoulder, brushed her cheek, then ran his fingers through her soft hair.

She swallowed thickly, nodding, for it was hunger that awoke her. At this moment she realized she had been bathed. Her skin was no longer tight and encrusted with blood, her body did not resonate with painful throes during her stretch. Her ruined chemise was also gone, replaced with a clean shift and the bed sheets were changed out. Someone had even brushed her hair, providing very soft locks for this stranger to thread his fingers through.

Through the rapture conjured by his voice and touch, her stomach growled queerly. If she could speak, she didn't. Her tongue was heavy in her mouth.

"Good," he whispered.

At such proximity, she was able to make out the color of his eyes; an icy blue. His hair was black with graying at his temples, which she liked immensely. Albeit pleasant, his scent was nothing like cinnamon, wormwood, and basil nor did it make her mouth water. It was wintry and piney and gave her images of evergreens amidst a quiet snowfall.

The stranger looked back towards the door to listen beyond the bedroom, and perhaps even the estate. Whatever it was, she couldn't hear it.

"I'm sure you're wondering why I'm here," he turned his attention back towards her, still working his claws through her hair until she felt as if she'd fall back to sleep. "I thought you were Regis. You smell very much like him. But I was mistaken."

He pressed the tip of his index claw against her chest and slowly ran it straight down the length of her body, curving past the landmark of her hip bone under her shift, and across the supple flesh of her thigh. Her trembling legs jerked and parted involuntarily. These sensitive areas were uncharted by the male touch, by  _any_ touch, for that matter. A furious blushed she hoped was concealed by the darkness colored her cheeks.

"He's fed you."

The claw disappeared only to be replaced by his entire hand gripping her leg, causing her shudder, her hips twitched and writhed.

"You want more than just blood though." It was not a question.

Those pale eyes roved her figure until together, they watched his hand slip between her thighs. He cupped the valley of her legs gently, a shocking contrast of cool flesh and intimate heat.

"He told me about you," his grave voice whispered, tangling his fingers in her hair while the other palm worked slow, arduous circles between her legs. He was rubbing a particular spot wisely; a tiny, throbbing bundle of nerves.

"He said you are a werewolf. Is that true?"

"No," the word stuck in her throat as she gripped the sheets beneath her from the sweet torture, hips rising and falling. It was difficult dividing her attention between his voice and his meticulous hand.

"Tell me," he continued with his lusty whisper, bringing her dangerously close to something wonderful. "Tell me what you are. I can help you."

 _How can I?_ she wanted to say.  _I'm dying to know myself. Oh, but his touch. He knows his way around a woman._

As if he knew, he slowed down the movement of his hand and lingered further away from her sodden folds and focused more on the lesser sensitive flesh around it, teasing her.

"I don't know," she panted breathlessly, yearning with such fervor she wanted to weep. "I don't know what I am.  _Please―_ "

Laz opened her eyes when both of his hands disappeared. The stranger nipped the pad of his thumb with his teeth. She smelled the blood forthwith and her empty stomach squirmed loudly. He proferred it and she opened her mouth, wrapping her lips around his thumb and sucking. It warmed a path into the pit of her belly, quelling the empty ache.

"Then allow the blood to tell me," his hand found itself again drifting down her stomach towards the mound of her sex. "Shall I listen to what it has to say?"

He withdrew his thumb from her mouth, her lips smacked like a kiss.

"Yes," she breathed.

The icy blue of his eyes was almost cold in their own regard, but if not for his scorching touch, she would have assumed he was scowling at her, even ashamed of his actions. She'd never seen this man before, but he  _felt_ familiar and far from strange, as if she'd seen him in passing, or even tasted him before. But that wasn't possible. Not only that, but he wanted her blood.

_Another vampire._

Laz's heart quickened with a swell of excitement.

Handsome and stern, his features were nothing like Regis' equally comely and noble physiognomy but beneath it was something very much like Regis; a parallel in opposite color. Where Regis was a white pearl, this one was black. Rare or not, she'd successfully found the other vampire Geralt had mentioned a morning that seemed years ago.

' _And if not him, there's another… Regis might be good… his friends are not.'_

No―not mentioned― _warned._

Beneath the smothering arousal, she felt a cold prickle of fear. After all, she'd never met him beforehand and here she was sharing very intimate space with a very eager vampire, judging alone on his predatory gaze. Conflict, so much conflict had come into her life. Regarding the witcher, her own faithful love for her mother, and how she felt about the things that went bump into the night; vampires and the like.

That same gaze caught her apprehension and he seized her chin with a cold, firm hand, carefully forcing her to stare deeply into his suddenly black pools.

" _Don't be afraid."_

And like that, the cold tingle dispersed like a colony of bats lost into the impenetrable night sky.

"Blood can reveal even the deepest secrets," he said after a moment, lowering his eyes onto her mouth, then gliding down her figure. "Even from just a taste."

"Yes!" the word jumped from her mouth. He straightened up immediately.

Firmly grabbing her leg, he gave it a quick tug, turning her perpendicularly along the bed. Now her legs hung off the side to face him. The roughness should have frightened her, but the fear did not return. He knelt down on to the floor before her knees as Laz propped herself up on her elbows, keeping a trained curious eye. The hem of her shift had risen up during the adjustment and bunched around her waist. The last remaining threads between her and the vampire were her knickers.

Placing his hand on her knees, he parted them gently. His breath caressed her inner thighs, eliciting a racing chill up her spine. He kissed the juncture of her groin, drifted over her core, and planted a gentle kiss directly on it through her panties. Laz's entire body tensed up. A claw pulled the crotch of her panties aside as he gazed up at her. Their eyes met. The open-air cooled the wetness between her thighs. A flush of heat fixed onto her cheeks with a mixture of emotions ranging from anxiety, wanton need, to perverse curiosity. What was he planning on doing down there? She had an idea; Keira was far from stringent with her escapades with interesting and unique men, leaving no detail omitted or query unanswered. Sex, though, was off-limits; Keira's orders. It was dangerous for Laz. What little emotions she had in her youth, which at times were difficult to control, often triggered a change. From there, with no recollection, no say or control of her behavior, there was no distinguishing what followed.

Albeit uncertain, sex intrigued her all the same.

Yes. What better time to delve into the unknown than with a vampire between her legs? A vampire could hold his own.

He lowered his dark crown, then ran his flattened tongue slowly up her center.

Laz gasped and choked, clutching the sheets with a white-knuckled grip. Her knees trembled, held apart by two large hands tipped with claws. She wanted to stay, wanted to flee, she couldn't decide. He went on, neither allowing her a moment to adjust to the sensations, kissing her feminine folds, slick with her own arousal and traced a thorough tongue against her.

 _By the gods!_ she cursed, angry that such a sensation existed for so long without discovery.

The dark-haired vampire tortured her a little more, sucking and nipping the sensitive flesh tenderly until her chest was riven with gasps. She begged for something, anything. What was it she wanted? Liberation? Freedom? Release! Something was building at the base of her spine at a rapid ascent, slithering up her consciousness like the tongue currently between her legs. Something dark and looming on the horizon of her senses, peering just around the corner a little more with every stroke.  Closer and closer, it crept.

He kissed her wet center, paused, then traced a series of kisses along her groin. There he lingered considerably. She writhed and moaned. He met her eyes a second time, pausing and opening his mouth where his impressive fangs revealed themselves and then―

He bit down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick author's note; I understand Dettlaff loves Rhenawedd. His intentions will be clear next chapter. Also, did anyone see what i did with the number of days...huehuehue, that was actually unintentional but hey!


	16. Far From Afraid Pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laz finds herself on the bitey end of a brooding vampire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the other part for CptPhasma!  
> hello, yes. it me again. :D
> 
> I should also mention that DoctorShadow loves extra long chapters because they neither need to sleep, breathe, or ever go to the bathroom. <3
> 
> ALSO, so that no one else is caught blindsided (I thought I was pacing this story quite well. Perhaps not) I should remind everyone Keira. Metz. Raised. Lazarus. If you read the books, youll know Keira is a horny little sorceress. I did this on purpose (also a number of other reasons but I can't reveal just yet because PLOT!) Keira is known among the Lodge and even Geralt to being very eager to get down and dirty. With that being said, Laz behaving as such shouldn't really come as a surprise, but then again, not everyone has read the books. I understand that, which is why I'm adding this note. Laz consumed a lot of Regis' blood, then enters Dettlaff able to manipulate and control humans and vampires. Then we have Laz, who's been suffering from her own hormones since she can remember but can't do anything because she'll probably eat them or something (jk jk, but hey, it's possible) Keira also takes advantage of people if she thinks they might be useful. Here is where Laz gets the idea of having TWO vampires at her beck and call. Because mother knows best, right!? Alright, so now that's out of the way, I hope you enjoy the story. 
> 
> ONWARDS.

Laz shattered into a million tiny sparkling shards, then slammed back into a solid celestial body. That thing hiding behind her mind's horizon soared over it, crashed into her and blotted her vision with motes of light. There was fright, then relief, and utter, incomprehensible bliss.

A sharp pain came from his teeth sinking into her flesh and it was gone, numbed even as he pulled from the wound. Laz felt it all. How her blood screamed with her, within her. How it rushed down as he drank. She feared the flooding blood would escape him as he drank, but not a drop trickled down her thigh. She felt each draw surging into his mouth, how he moaned, and she felt that in the marrow of her bones. She almost panicked, feeling him latch on, but her mind went white, then black, then white again as he drew from her femoral artery, replacing all fear with a horribly wonderful climax. He allowed her legs to bookend his head tightly as she trembled and quaked while he gripped the swell of her hips until tiny beads of blood bloomed beneath his sinking claws.

Outside, down from Gorgon, the Devil Mountain, came a menacing rumble. Thunder heralded by a battering gale moved swiftly over the hillocks and the Seidhe Llygad. Like the leaves upon that gusting current, she rode the waves of pleasure until the edges of her vision blurred and shimmered. Her ears and chest flushed hotly and quickly with the tides of her hammering heart.

As quickly as it began, it ended.

The dark-haired vampire freed his fangs from her groin and for a strange moment, she felt detached and empty. Laz twitched, feeling her hot blood trickle, joining the other fluids to stain the once-clean linen. He brought his attention one last time to the swollen collection of nerves amidst her quivering heat and kissed it gently. Its raw sensitivity caused her to hiss and jerk.

Rising from between her legs with a bloody mouth, he reached and caught both of her wrists, drawing her upright. Laz was limp initially, like a rag doll. But his intentions were clear. He pushed away his collar of his trench coat and cut a small incision across his neck. Turning his head to the side for her, he pressed his hand against the back of her neck, luring her closer. She touched it experimentally with her tongue, then kissed it, then latched on when the sweetness caressed her palate. Drawing firmly and ravenous as he did until he hissed and gripped her flanks. She crushed him against her chest, breathing and drinking deeply until she was drowning in his essence. Lost in the black, carnal obscenity, Laz pulled more blood from the wound.

 _More._ She must have more. For a moment, she considered even biting him. A feral, animalistic hunger curled her hands into a fist, gathering his trench coat and his black hair in her grasp. His blood was as sweet as Regis, but that was the extent of their similarities aside from both being vampires. There was a certain roughened quality to how he handled her. Something she would not likely see in Regis.

"Your blood is uncommonly rich," he gathered her hair in a tight fist, hissing as she drank, then pulled her head back. "Have you never been with a man before?"

"No," Laz gasped for air then coughed, holding onto the lapels of his coat to keep from falling back onto the bed. When she opened her eyes, his handsome countenance was flummoxed. A flash of lightning revealed the tendrils of gray at his temples. It made her think of Regis.

A new emotion revealed itself.

_Shame._

"What did my blood say?" she whispered, casting the prickly emotive away to mull over later.

He released her and stood. Laz dropped back onto the bed, dazed and ashamed of her recklessness, despite her efforts. She wiped the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand, as if she could clean away the evidence of her lecherous behavior.

"I must ask a favor from you," he said suddenly, the tip of his fangs peeking out as he spoke. "I'll give you all the blood you want should you agree to it. But bear in mind, it is somewhat dangerous."

"What is it?"

"Someone I care for dearly has been abducted. I wish to free her."

An ugly emotive stung her thoughts;  _jealousy_. She was beginning to both despise and admire emotions altogether, like one startling and amusing epiphany to the next. However, the deal was the very deal she hoped to achieve with Regis. Jealousy aside, the offer was tempting, even if it was with the partner she hadn't in mind. Her thawing little heart wrenched by the thought.

Regis, or this dark-haired vampire?

Regis avoided libation. Clearly, this one did not. Who did she want more?

Laz felt sick with more, bloody conflict.

_I want both. I do. I want both of them._

This behavior, she realized quickly, was very much like Keira. Laz pushed away from the guilt and the shame.  _Keira was dead,_ as were the secrets of her lineage. Her existence was now an unanswerable question, an infinite mystery. No amount of pondering or  _what if's_ could raise her mother from the dead, nor conjure a close in these lifelong pursuits. It was time to stop investing so much effort.

"I'll help," she said finally, picking herself up and pulling the covers over her legs. The wound still throbbed, but it didn't hurt. The edges of her senses were warm and fuzzy. Plus, she was no longer hungry. If drinking vampire's blood made her feel better, lessened the pain during shifts, then so be it. It was an opportunity she would gladly take advantage of.

"Thank you," he said gravely. "Right now the witcher and Regis are working together to find her. Time is short. There are men already working against the witcher. I fear Regis is no more apt at finding her than I."

"So you came here tonight, thinking I was Regis," she was trying to wrap her head around the situation. "When you discovered I was not, you bit me, made me feel all those things because your lover is missing? You seduced me when you could have just asked?"

"My apologies. I was under the impression you enjoyed our exchange."

Laz turned her head across and crossed her arms stiffly. Her cheeks were hot again.

The vampire wiped a pale hand down his face, becoming frustrated.

"All my efforts to rescue her fall short," he growled. "They have her well hidden and I am _desperate._ "

"Desperate!?" she shot back. "What unorthodox means you use to find her! I'm sure she'll love to hear how you lapped up my center, then drank my blood from the same well!"

"Please!" he snarled, his face twisting. "I've done  _much_ worse so far! You think tonight with you is the greater evil? You think this is my darkest sin? Werewolf or not, you can track her, can you not?"

"If a  _vampire_  can't find her," she snarled back, heated that the seduction worked, that she fell merrily into his trap, and still wanted more. " _What makes you think I can?_ "

He looked at her with those calculating blue eyes. She wanted to slap him, bite him,  _and_   _fuck him._

" _Vampires_ ," she spat disdainfully, scowling in the shadows. Where was Regis? He needed to be slapped too for bringing another vampire into the mix.

A flash of lightning brightened the room then plunged it back into darkness, followed by a dull rumble of thunder. The storm was closing in.

"Regis told me you cannot be detected by our kind, monsters, or even the witcher's medallion unless you've been hurt unless your blood has been spilled. He's right."

Laz frowned, growing angry over the fact she had become some oddity witchers and vampires could poke and prod, literally.

"Had he not fed you, I would have never known you existed. You're hidden from the eye, all eyes."

Laz blew a strand of hair from her face, ignoring him.

The vampire narrowed his eyes.

She would have to change, she realized. In truth, she was slightly apprehensive about it. Having consumed so much blood, from two separate vampires, how would it feel? The wolf; how would it respond to the discord she caused interrupting the shift? Would days go by? Weeks? She hadn't surrendered for it, would it fight out of spite? There were too many unknowns.

Furthermore, she was already convinced herself she would help him. He was a vampire and their blood was  _liberating._ As long as he kept his word, she didn't see the problem. Situation dangerous or not, the wolf would protect her; that much she knew.

After a moment, while the wind outside blew and gusted against the shutters, she added, "If I do find her, what then? Is she also a vampire?"

"No, she is human. If you're able, take her to the toy shop. If not, my blood and Regis' remains with you. We will be able to track you down. Any surge of emotion, we will come. Lead her away to somewhere safe, you will be our beacon."

The first pattering of rain descended and breached the open window. The smell of rainwater and wet stone quickly filled the room.

Laz shook her head, throwing her white hair from her face.

"My emotions are the  _last_  thing you or Regis should follow. I don't even know your name and I've already let you taste me in  _more than one regard._ Now you want me to hunt your lover down, rescue her from people  _you_ can't even control." Laz snorted derisively. "Where is Regis? What does he have to say about this? And if it's so important, why didn't he ask me himself?"

"Dettlaff van der Eretein."

"What?"

"My name is Dettlaff."

"Well, Dettlaff, I cannot control my emotions or the wolf. What you're asking is not only dangerous to me but those around me. Until I drank Regis' blood, anger was all I knew. Now you're here, confusing me, causing me to feel godforsaken things like lust and false love. These emotions are already hard to understand for me, much less control them. I don't think it's going to work. Find someone else. An actual werewolf, perhaps. I heard there's one nearby."

Once more, she turned her head defiantly, eyeing the rain falling through the window and creating a puddle on the floor where it seeped into a gap between the wooden planks.

"You must try," he growled coolly. "Time is running out. If we cannot find her and disable the blackmailer, they will send  _pieces_ of her to me. And more people will die. Do you have any idea what it's like? Knowing someone you love will die if you do not intervene?"

"It's  _you,"_ she whispered suddenly, shooting a look. "You're the one hacking everyone up and tossing them in the river, aren't you? The Beast of Beauclair."

Laz threw her arms up, falling dramatically back onto the bed, muttering at the ceiling. "I can see Keira now rolling in her grave. How does this happen to me..."

Her eyes rolled to glare at Dettlaff a second time. A flicker of lightning cast his expression malignantly, throwing fleeting shadows over a brief face of a demon. It was gone in a blink. There was so much seething anger just simmering beneath the surface. Oddly enough, she could feel it, but she was far from afraid.

Sighing, she placed herself in his shoes. Were it Keira instead of his lover, and Lazarus instead of Dettlaff. Yes, she understood clearly the pains she would endure to rescue her mother. But fate did not deem it so.

In spite of herself, her heart went out to him. If it were Keira...

"It is also clear," Dettlaff spoke slowly, venomously. "That you also do not understand how it feels being unable to protect those you love."

Another frightening crack of thunder erupted, the rain fell in roaring torrents.

"I do," Laz said calmly, just as venomously, going back to the moment she crawled out of the cold waters and onto the shores of Fyke Isle. "That I do."


	17. Cold Steel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laz is bitterly reminded why she hunted the witcher from the start.

Lazarus stared at the open window as the wind continued to howl and fling rain into the bedroom. She was alone once more. Gone was Dettlaff out that very window into the storm, leaving behind a piece of silk cloth trimmed in lace that smelled delicately of perfume. On her night stand was where it rested and would remain there until she could grasp how she was to follow a scent when the wolf did practically whatever it wanted to do.

Time, he had said. They were running out of time. How many hours had past since he left, she wasn't sure.

Once more, Laz saw this _Rhenawedd_ as Keira and that alone spurred a sense of purpose and before she knew it, a plan came together.

Throwing the covers back, she stood and closed the window. Standing in the puddle of rainwater, she glanced down, watching rivulets travel through the slats and onto the bedroom below. She’d imagined the witcher’s estate much differently, not so well furnished or charming as it was. An entire vineyard, at that. Keira would have killed to have such a property, or even to be the duchess’s advisor as she had once been for King Foltest.

Laz grabbed the torn cloth and headed downstairs.

The lower floor was empty. With the storm bearing down outside, it was surprising it hadn’t herded all souls indoors. Neither the majordomo she heard fretting throughout the nights before, nor the cook who kept the dwelling sweet with the smell of fresh bread could be found.

At the foot of the stairs were three fully-assembled racks of armor. One was menacing black steel with sharp, weathered plates. Another made of dyed leather, fox pelts, and rusting mail. At least, it looked like a fox pelt. That could have also been dyed. It easily could have been a white pelt before. Laz stomach churned. The third ensemble was the same jerkin and mail she’d seen him in once before with the pinching hard leather, but somewhat different, simpler.

She turned away, moving across the dining room and coming upon a second bedroom near the front of the house. The door was open and she could hear the puddle of rainwater created upstairs leaking through the slats and onto the floor. Laz eyed the puddle then the room.

Geralt’s room.

His bed was made and looked to be unused. Mounted swords, shields and trophies lined the walls. A bookcase teeming with tomes and manuscripts on her left reached the high ceiling. She stepped past the threshold, eyeing a large trunk across the room. The air, it seemed, trembled against her ears.

Strangely, the closer she came to the trunk, the stronger the vibration became. She tentatively touched the surface of the trunk and the hum traveled up her arm and spread through her chest. Kneeling before it, fingering the latch up, she then lifted the heavy lid.

Trinkets, baubles, multiple enchanted figurines, and a purple rose encased in a glass box; an emerald lantern, and many other priceless talismans filled the trunk, thrown together like uselessjunk. The vibration increased markedly, to the point she felt it in the cavity of her chest.

Laz stuck her hand in and pulled out the first item she touched; an ornate disc, which was curiously warm but also the vibration’s provenance, emerged. It pulsed in her hand, sending tingling waves of warmth up her arms, over her shoulders and down her back. She’d seen it before because it didn’t belong to Geralt;

It belonged to Keira.

Laz stood, flipping the Eye of Nehaleni over in her hand. It was still wholly intact, sans several dark stains and minor chipping on the engraved edges. She smelled it, but there was nothing that smelled of Keira left on it. Looking back into the trunk, she rummaged several items around to see if anything else remained of her mother’s, but the Eye was all he had.

 _You stole it,_ she thought with a cold bitterness. _You ruthless bastard plundered her corpse like you would steal the guts from an eviscerated Drowner._

A horrible image of Geralt prying it from her bloody hands, or rifling through her purse as she lay against the grounds of Fyke Isle, plagued her thoughts. It was likely he didn’t even wait for her soul depart before taking it.

There was nothing to stop her blood from boiling. In the last few days of her recovery, her vendetta was a shadow, unrelenting and ever-reminding.The witcher had spared her from the bandits, for that she was grateful, grateful to have a second chance at vengeance. When she had entered Keira’s thatched-roof cabin, finding the innards strewn about, toppled and destroyed, she assumed it was the locals, but now she knew that was not the case.

Laz didn’t flinch when another splintering crack of thunder erupted. It was almost expected, evoked by the ferocity of the storm itself.

 _Find Rhenawedd_ ; that was the plan. A hazardous plan that meant she would be wandering around in the dark where the light at the end could be anything; _death, certain confusion, even failure._ But if the plan proved successful, if she was able to locate and rescue this vampire’s human-lover, it put Dettlaff in her debt. She shivered. A dark plan quickly unfolded.

_I don’t want blood anymore. I want revenge._

Dettlaff.

 _Shame, anger, guilt, regret, longing, and hope_ ; a tumultuous medley of dark and polar ideas churned inside like the furious storm brewing overhead. He would do anything for Rhenawedd, _anything_. As she would do for Keira.

_Where is my place in all this? I’m confused and alone, caught between a world of vampires and witchers. Now I’m making deals with the Beast of Beauclair. How did this happen? What will I gain from this?_

_Release_?  

Yes, release.

However, something held her down, clung to the corners of her subconscious like biting cold steel. Whatever it was, she would find it, break the shackles that confined her. As soon as she found Rhenawedd, she would find it.

Slamming the trunk shut, she took a sword down from one of the wall mounts and tossed it on the bed. Then she rummaged through the witcher’s dressers, procuring a pair of slacks far too long for her, but donned them regardless. Sliding the blade in its assigned scabbard, which was accompanying the mount, she tucked the hem of her shift into her pants and cinched the belt around her hips.

Through the kitchen's backdoor, she stepped out into the storm and headed for the Pheasantry Inn.

* * *

 

“When need to talk,” the witcher said stiffly.

At the mouth of his estate’s barn, Geralt came to a firm stance before the vampire with his arms crossed stubbornly. Behind him was a blackened sky with sheets of rain sweeping by in quick, unending successions. The earth was puddles of silver reflecting the low overcast.

Perched on an even tree stump, Regis closed to tome with a dull clap and set it aside. Roach, grazing over a bed of hay, flicked her ears up and glanced towards the sound of Geralt's voice.

“You have my undivided attention," replied the vampire.

A storm blew in the night before, bringing with it torrents of rain and thunder heightened by flashes of lightning. It went on into the morning and gave no indications of letting up now that noon was close. He liked the smell of the ozone during such storms. It was relaxing and helped him concentrate so, in the meantime, he took to the barn for some reading whilst the guest slept.

The witcher, as it was in his nature, came and went, leaving the girl in the vampire’s charge. There was still many matters regarding the blackmailer, the letters, and its the wine stains, plus its provenance. Geralt had recently intercepted a shipment, obtained a prisoner in the midst and caught whiff of a Cintrian man said to be visiting Hauteville with a particularly talented artist. While Regis waited for Laz to wake, the witcher prepared to visit the Mandragora by discarding his rough jerkin and mail and donning a dark silken doublet and slacks that caused Regis considerable effort not to chuckle.

“Your lady friend is cursed,” Geralt deadpanned, having to speak over the howling wind and rain.

Regis smiled faintly with a nod.

“When were you planning on telling me?” the witcher continued. “Or were you just gonna to leave that out?”

The vampire sighed, running his claws through his gray hair thoughtfully. “I believed you knew already. If not, in due time.”

“I figured it out the first night. The dire wolf, the glove, and then her―”

“I had no doubt in your keen observations, Geralt. But we have a prodigious amount matters we need tending to. As you said so yourself, in fact. I had every intention addressing the issue―when the time was right.”

“Mhm,” Geralt grunted, undeterred. “Before or after Dettlaff? And a werewolf, Regis, seriously?”

The vampire gave the witcher a calm, even look. “I recently recall you claiming that all wights had been extinguished from this plane.”

“They were. This wight was conjured by a curse. What’s your point?”

“My point being, perhaps we shall encounter another error in the witcher’s endless-encyclopedia-of-monsters-and-unimaginable-fiends.”

“Spit it out, Regis.What are you saying?”

Geralt’s dry tone inspired the vampire to straighten his shoulders and incline his head nobly.

“I’m saying what are the chances our guest is not afflicted by the lycanthropic mutation?”

The witcher did not look away, allowing the words to sink and grow with thoughtful consideration. He respected Regis’ opinion, but the higher vampires professions were _au fait_ over medicaments, herbs and the like. Moreover, and simply, _Geralt_ was the witcher and did not like being told he was wrong or unaware.

“My answer would be,” the witcher said pensively. “If _not_ a werewolf, then something worse and it should probably be killed. At any rate, as soon as she recovers she needs to go. I can’t have a werewolf, _or worse,_ stalking Corvo Bianco until a full moon. A contract may already be out. If not,” he paused. “It’s only a matter of time.”

Geralt uncrossed his arms and faced the storm.

“Right now, we need to find Rhenawedd.”

The witcher was correct; werewolves, _or worse,_ held terrible reputations. They were inconsolable, feral in the absolute definition, and above all else, cursed.

* * *

 

“What in Lebioda…?” Imogen murmured, pausing from wiping a tankard clean to stare up at the ceiling. “Do you hear that?”

Ygritte stopped her fervid sweeping and listened.

A storm had suddenly arrived the night before, nearly drowning Beauclair in a heavy, relentless downpour with roaring winds and perpetual flickers of lightning and rolling thunder. As a result, the Pheasantry was empty and as quiet as a crypt, sans what appeared to be the heavens falling outside.

Despite this, she and Imogen could still hear the distinct thudding overhead; someone was walking around above them.

_A burglar?_

Perhaps the dolt thought the storm’s orchestra would obscure his theft, but it was only Imogen and Ygritte working the inn. Hawks was at his farm gathering his chickens and sheep into the stalls, thus leaving the two barmaids alone. The few patrons brave enough to step out into the storm broke their fast quickly and quietly, and hurried back to their shelters to wait out the weather. For lunch and dinner, they would be lucky to receive one customer at all.

“Wait here,” she told Imogen.

Ygritte tossed aside her apron, armed herself with an iron frying pan, and crept upstairs quietly. As she reached the top of the landing, straining her ears, more footfalls issued from the middle of the hallway. At the same time, a shadow swept past the space under the door. Whatever it was, it was in Laz’s room, who'd been missing for days. Imogen had fathomed the girl had finally returned to Velen, from whence she came. Ygritte hoped not. She truly liked Laz.

Edging closer, she listened intently. Coming before the doorway, she adjusted her grip on the frying pan, carefully wrapped her other hand around the knob, took a steady breath and twisted.

The first thing she saw was a discarded shift along the floor, near the bed.

The second thing she saw as the door widened was a demon.


	18. Disillusioned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Me? I've had many names. Old names only the wind and the trees can pronounce. I am the mountain, the forest, and the earth."
> 
> Laz takes a look at her reflection and sees what's been there all along.

 

* * *

They'd combed the entire estate for her. Neither the majordomo or the cook had seen her leave and none of the workers spotted a white-haired maiden exiting the estate. It was as if she vanished, like a phantom.

"She's gone," Regis confirmed coming down the stairs. That was the least troubling thing he discovered in the guest bedroom. There were flecks of blood along the edge of the bed and floor, her's and another's. More importantly, a familiar, unmistakable scent lingered in the air; Dettlaff had paid a visit.

Geralt stepped out of his bedroom noiselessly. He'd checked the servant quarters, the cellar, and the vineyard just out of surety. She was gone.

The sconces lining the walls flickered, throwing a red glow over the witcher's white hair and the many metal plates of armor assembled along the walls. Regis looked at the tiny flames. If only they could talk, the fire could recount where she went and what happened above.

"She took several parting gifts as well." the witcher muttered dryly. "A sword, its scabbard, and a trinket."

* * *

Ygritte flew into a screaming panic, dashing across the room and swatting the beast mercilessly with the frying pan. It had been rifling through a trunk of possessions, but no longer. The iron rang in a series of short metallic reports as she wailed against it. Startled, the demon blew a ghoulish howl, threw its arms up to protect its head before it shoved the barmaid back with hellish claws.

Both sprang apart, heaving and pulling themselves together. A dresser's hard corner collided with Ygritte's hip, throwing her into an inept sprawl about the floor. The demon, having jumped away, backed into a vanity mirror and threw its arms out to catch itself.

"Ygritte!" the demon screeched, regaining its senses. The barmaid had struck it properly. There was a red welp against its cheek, which it touched warily with shimmering eyes. "What has gotten into you!"

 _It knows my name!_ This spurred her to scramble to her feet.

"Begone, you she-beast!" the blonde wench bawled, struggling for her weapon. She held it out defensively before her. "I'll pummel you to death if you come any closer!"

"She-beast?" The thing snorted incredulously, still pressing a hand to its injured cheek. "What the hell are you talking about? Ygritte, it's  _me_ ; Lazarus."

"Shut it, you ugly fiend! You hellish demoness! I will expel you from her if I have to strike you down with this kitchenware!"

It frightened her truly, to the point her entire figure trembled like a leaf. Especially knowing she was up here alone with it.

"Ygritte," the demon pacified softly. "Please, put the frying pan down. And do not call me names. You've done enough already."

The iron weapon quivered but did not lower. Ygritte was unconvinced what it said was true. It knew her name and behaved in a casual and familiar manner likened to friendship. The portly blonde with cornflower blue eyes permitted herself a moment to scrutinize the monstrosity before her.

For it was highly probable the foul demon was actually Lazarus.

* * *

 

The vampire grew thoughtfully quiet. Dettlaff's visit was troubling and worse, undetected. Higher vampires could manipulate perception, making it difficult for even the sensitive witcher medallion to sense their presence. But that did not apply to other higher vampires.

"What might those others things be?" Regis asked.

"The Eye of Nehaleni," the witcher responded. "Which is only useful when dispelling illusions. Probably doesn't even know what it is, much less what it does."

There was so much left to be done, much of it was unrelated to Lazarus and all of it had the vampire going cross-eyed.

Dettlaff had come and gone sometime during the night, perhaps at the same time the storm arrived. Moments before, Regis had left for the cemetery and, just before that, Geralt had met with the Duchess. Corvo Bianco was a considerable distance away and with a storm between him and Dettlaff, there was no way for him to have expected or anticipated his arrival.

Regis curled his fingers until his claws cut into his skin. Her blood hung in the air, so did Dettlaff's, he warned himself but didn't want to imagine it.

Geralt looked over.

"Do you know where she went?"

"No," Regis grimaced. "But Dettlaff was here."

"Interesting. Did the two of you chat?"

"We did not. I gather he smelled my blood on her and confused it for me, conceivably even another vampire. He can gain quite the repertoire of lesser vampires and his herding capability is to be admired. Consequently, when you were gone, conspiring with the duchy and I, for the cemetery, I believe he came to her at an opportune moment and convinced her to leave."

Regis omitted his suspicions. He liked to believe Dettlaff would not pull an innocent bystander into the mix. At least, not by such reckless and bitter means.

Perhaps there was a struggle between the two. One that resulted in injuries to both parties. He hoped. He couldn't imagine the alternative.

"I don't see the problem in that," muttered the witcher. "But that's no reason to take my sword and the Eye. That's called stealing."

"What is more important to you?" the barber-surgeon queried. "Finding the blackmailer or getting your weapon and magic trophy back?"

The rain was an endless deluge.

* * *

Admittedly, it looked like Lazarus, possessing the same long, white hair and warm complexion. It wore men's trousers, a very loose blouse that gave it a haggard appearance, and mud-caked its bare feet after it came in from the storm.

But its glistening eyes, both the same color, were wide and startled. Something had happened, Ygritte surmised. A curse had forced itself up her dear friend.

She took a deep breath and lowered the frying pan. It didn't attack, as she suspected, but backed up until it bumped into the looking glass again. The rain scrawled rivulets down the window. The sky was black.

"Has a curse claimed you?" Ygritte's voice trembled with fear. "What are those things coming out of your head?"

"What?" It sounded like Laz and scoffed like her too. "What madness has claimed you?"

"I could ask you the same thing!" The barmaid retorted. "Take a look at yourself!"

The thing that looked like Laz turned around towards the looking glass behind it.

And screamed.

* * *

Laz blanched and a roll of nausea clawed her throat. Her hands flew up to stifle the caustic sound tearing through her. Her lungs deflated with a wheeze until she starved for air.

What reflected back in the looking glass evoked a great deal of horror, disbelief, and confusion.

_Horns._

Black, fluted horns protruded from each side of her head right above her temples. They curled slightly backward at the length of nearly a foot, like a ram. But unlike a ram, they then fanned upward with tips flaring in three separate segments, splaying like crow feathers.

That would have been easier to stomach, she thought: feathers coming from her head. Feathers could be plucked, even if they grew back, she could pluck those as well. These were not feathers. They were horns, and they were hideous and worse, they were attached to her head.

A trembling hand reached up, hopeful her eyes betrayed her, that perhaps Ygritte had knocked her out with the assaulting iron and she was trapped in a nightmare. She touched the coarse solid base, felt the rough rigid landmarks rise up and sweep back.

They were truly there.

She was  _awake_.

She was  _here._

This was  _real._

Laz gripped the horn firmly―which was nearly wider than her entire grip―and yanked. Her head jerked, forcibly popping her neck and successfully throwing off her footing. She cried out, spilling to the floor in a heap of limbs and a throbbing scalp.

"Laz," the barmaid squeaked, sounding like she was also about to hurl. "You-you've g-got…" she was pointing a trembling finger at Laz's posterior.

The horned she-beast jumped up and whirled around, catching sight of an equally disturbing and disgusting appendage attached to her lower back. Long and hairless like a rat's if not for the little tuft of white fur at its tip. Narrow and feline, behaving in the same aloof manner with the tip flicking to and fro, indifferently and autonomously. Her coccyx had grown right out of her arse and continued once it reached a satisfactory length.

But Laz was not at all satisfied. Not by the horns, not by the tail. Not by any of her newly-discovered conditions.

Blind with panic, she bounded across the room, trying to get away from it, crashing into dressers, knocking down candles and clambering across her bed until Ygritte intercepted her by wrapping her in a confining embrace.

In a fortnight, Laz's entire world was rupturing at the seams of reality.

_Keira was dead. A witcher in Toussaint. Vampires and cemeteries. Blood, so much blood and now this…._

She was ruined, bitten, and deformed.

When she looked at the glass again, she flushed and pressed a hand over her mouth to forestall an unpleasant dry heave. She sank to her knees, landing painfully upon her unsightly tail. With a sharp howl, she rolled onto her hip, kicking the cursed thing away from her. She felt that, too. She felt everything. Ruined!

By the surmounting fleeting emotions and their fickle indecisions, to the perceptible weight against her skull and the cool breeze caressing her bald sweeping tail, she was ruined. At the base of the horn where she yanked was now a dull ache and a pinch along her tail from where she landed on it. Then there was the perpetual, extra sensation of  _having a tail at all._  Like an extra limb, she knew it was there just by the fact that it was  _hers,_  and  _there to begin with._

It all made her skin crawl.

"Don't hurl," Ygritte warned, seeing her friend turn green. "If you puke, I will puke!"

At wit's end, Laz burst into tears, because that seemed like a normal thing to do and right now, she wanted nothing more.

Ygritte moved closer to console her friend. The sobs turned to wretching and ugly heaving shook her shoulders and squeezed her chest.

"I should have never left Midcopse." Laz bawled. "I should have stayed, and protected her! I could have kept that fuckin' witcher from her!"

Ygritte stopped rubbing Laz's back, searching for words of assurance, but none came to mind. Having grown up in the orphanage, she never knew her parents and it was hard to mutter something relatable when the subject possessed unrelatable horns and a tail.

"How did this happen? Where have you been the last week?"

"I met a vampire last night." Laz sniffed and looked up towards the window, to the churning storm.

"You met a vampire last night!?"

"Yes." She blinked, freeing another tear, "He needs me to find someone. I agreed, but I was only in a shift, I needed clothes. I was at the witcher's estate-"

"You were at the witcher's estate?"

"-recovering from the bandits attacking me-

"Bandit's attacked you!?"

"Yes! Listen! I went downstairs to steal some clothes. A horrible storm came about and I wasn't going to walk out with just a shift on. I went into his room and saw a trunk―" She gasped, turning a sickly white.

Ygritte was stunned into silence. Her big blue eyes glistened, listening with unblinking enrapture. She gripped her friend's shoulders firmly.

"What!" the barmaid exclaimed. "What is it?"

"The Eye!"

" _The Eye_?"

"Yes! The Eye!"

"Oh, gods," Ygritte groaned quietly. "Did I thwack you too hard? Laz, look at me. What's wrong?"

Laz twisted around to stare once more at her startling reflection. Her blue eye was gone. Two pools of molten gold tinged red from her cries peered back. Black horns sprouted from hair white as the moon and a long, hairless tail twitched behind her. The numbness was a suppressant of some sort. But what was it suppressing? Her emotions? Why would Keira feel such a spell was necessary?

This  _illusion_ Laz knew all her life. Keira made it known and did not hide the fact what Laz saw in the mirror was untrue. She'd even grown to hate her reflection. It was supposed to be a magical concealment to hide her true form.

Not this form. What was this?  _What the hell was this!_

' _This is who you are,_ ' Keira had scolded whenever Laz's inquiries became pressing or bothersome.  _'Embrace it!'_

Laz touched her face. There must have been a mistake. The Eye, which was still functional and intact, should have revealed the wolf. If what Keira had said during her youth...

"She made me believe the woman was an illusion," Laz whispered catatonically, unseeingly towards the looking glass. "She told me the magic conjured my features...but she couldn't get both my eyes to be the same color as hers. I was her daughter; she wanted me to have her eyes."

"What?" Ygritte took both of Laz's hands which were shaking considerably. "What are you talking about?

_I knew all of my features were an illusion but I did not expect this… I expected to be turned back into an animal. Is that to say, I never was an animal? That I was looking at my true self this entire time?_

"She told me I was a pup when she found me."

"Laz, you're uttering nonsense! Stop it!"

The lie she'd grown to acknowledge and trust; the lie set to protect her and bind her so that she appeared normal and human, so the humans wouldn't hunt her; so the dwarves wouldn't eat her; so the witchers wouldn't kill her.

This lie.

"It's not a Gift," Laz's voice trembled darkly. "It never was a Gift. She made me believe I was an animal. I hated myself because I couldn't be human..."

A cold black rage, laced with spite and confusion welled up inside. A crack of thunder and lightning shot from the belly of the clouds and struck the surface of the lake, blinding the harbor in white light. But it did not disappear, it remained, stunning the entire town of Beauclair in a burning light that pained the eyes.

Laz snatched up the frying pan and struck the surface of the looking glass. With a great crash, it shattered into innumerable pieces, causing Ygritte to yelp. Laz stood and backed away, heaving with anger and resentment as the looking glass rocked back on its frame and shed the last of its glittering shards.

Ygritte rose as well, taking Laz by the hand once more.

"Calm down," she pleaded, "We'll figure it out. We can fit a bonnet or a sunhat over your head."

"No..." Laz was done with illusions.

"You have long enough hair. I can pull it up and we can coif it around your―," she exhaled sharply, shuddering, "Horns."

"No!"

She turned and flung the frying pan at the window, shattering it. The blonde barmaid yelped again, throwing her arms up over her head and ducking.

The stormy wind billowed past the curtains, cooling the stifling air of the room. Laz felt a little better.

The blinding light dominating the harbor vanished.

"You don't understand." she breathed, reining in her anger. "I will be stuck like this forever. I will be hunted, decapitated, and my body will be sent to Oxenfurt so the scholars can cut me open and study my insides."

Outside the stormy gale screamed, battering the shutters and churning the choppy surface of the Seidhe Llygad. A knock came from the door. A muffled voice rose from the other side. Both barmaids stared, stock-still. Imogen heard all the disturbance from below and came to investigate.

Reading Laz's wild expression, Ygritte caught her firmly by the arms.

"No, stay! We can figure this out! The storm!"

The knocking turned into a pounding, then the doorknob jostled and twisted. Before it could open, before it revealed whoever stood behind it, before they could see Laz for what she truly was, she twisted herself arms free and made haste through the broken window. The serrated edges bit sharply into her shoulders and palms as she hauled herself out onto the stone balcony. She needed to get away.

No emotions, no thoughts. No remembering.

No Gift. No curse, no Name.


	19. A Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Ygritte comes to terms, Laz is not so willing and flees for the amphitheater during the storm.

Ygritte jumped after her, even to the point she leaned precariously out of the window and screamed for Laz. The storm reared up and swallowed her call, stinging her face with rains and whipping winds. When she ducked back inside, mousy Imogen was standing in the doorway, examining the state of the room. Laz’s emotional frenzy had tossed the place to pieces.

“Ygritte, what’s all that fuss I heard?” Imogen asked as she leaned over and picked up an overturned vase.

Now was not the time for explanation.

Without a word, the plump blonde marched past her and raced for the stairs. Laz could not be out in the storm, not looking like that.

From the coat rack at the front, Ygritte seized her cloak. There was nothing else she could do but brave the storm. If the public saw Lazarus, there would be chaos and panic amassed. They would capture her, throw her in the clink, or sell her to some perverted sorcerer signed by the duquessa.

Outside,  the wind and the rain lashed the square as if the gods were raging. It tore at Ygritte’s cloak and skirts in all manner and directions. Sweeping left, then back right, blowing her hair up and suddenly bearing down on her with unrelenting gusts. Her friend’s bedroom was above the veranda, but one glance indicated Laz had fled the balcony. Ygritte cursed her round hips and the narrow dimensions of the window.

As she headed back down towards the square, she caught a small glimpse of movement traveling towards the pier. Too short to keep a trained eye on Laz over the stone wall, Ygritte hopped, intermittently spotting the lass heading for the pier’s far end and walking with such fierce determination, Ygritte feared she was going to fight Mt. Gorgon barehanded.

Turning the wall, a trellis of small red flowers spilled over the beams like a floral waterfall, dripping with rainwater. There, at the end of the pier was Laz running in a dead sprint, towards the end of the dock.

_Is she about to…?_

_She is!_

With no break in her stride, Laz hurdled over the stone railing and disappeared beyond the harbor wall.

“You dumb, awful git!” Ygritte stomped and spat, redirecting towards the southern docks, where she knew she could obtain a boat. Ygritte kept a trained eye. It appeared Laz was swimming straight across towards the beach where the cursed amphitheater sat broken and desolate.

_Oh, Lebioda…_

She found a small boat being abused by the choppy waters and loosened the mooring lines, tossed them aside and unraveled, then positioned the sails. The wind caught and lurched the boat forward.

   As Ygritte drifted across the clear lake, a flicker of lightning flashed over Beauclair. Her heart fluttered in her chest, bracing for the subsequent thunder. It came, rumbling and cracking ferociously like crashing boulders.

Like many of the elven runes left therein Toussaint, the amphitheater was not a place to explore. It was, however, abandoned and a proper place to hide when ones inflicted by horns and a long rodent’s tail.

   Reluctantly, the shores arrived quickly, but her friend was nowhere along the beach.

   Ygritte spat a stream of curses as she shored the boat and hauled herself out.

A cave yawned open straight ahead with a staircase on its right, but under no circumstances would Ygritte find herself near it. Rumors were something terrible plagued these broken stone. Neither Laz or Ygritte had any concern being here, and once she recovered Laz, she would give her an earful. Horned and tailed made no difference to the barmaid. Taking the long way, she avoided the cave and its stairs. Her stomach twisted with fear.  Laz was her friend, and even if these details were disturbing and downright frightening, Ygritte would uncover a solution. The coiffing was quite smart if she said so herself.

Grumbling, Ygritte marched up the beach, soaked to the bone. Her skirts were heavily sodden by the unrelenting rain but each determined stomp softened by the sand brought her past the small beach house and towards an ascending path for the theatre.

The things she did for Lazarus: stealing a boat, chasing her across the lake amid what could be Toussaint's most severe storm, and trespassing onto ancient, more importantly, _haunted_ elven ruins. The audacity, she thought, for her to run out into such a storm, looking the way she did, in a rare form at that. Not only mentally, but physically. If she didn’t get to Laz soon enough, a vagrant or worse, another band of deserts or ruffians would find her.

Ygritte hiked up the path, still grumbling as the deluging rain soaked her sleeves and into her underskirts. A thick branch snapped, causing her to pause and listen. For a moment, she’d forgotten where she was; the cursed amphitheater where something screamed throughout the night, throwing ghostly lights across the archways and slender columns.

   Ygritte took another step. A second thick snap emitted further into the center of the theatre. The rising path prevented anyone from seeing well into the center of the ruins. If it was a felled tree, she should have seen the green crowns shushing and listing.

A third sturdy branch broke. The rain lessened substantially.

No, not a branch snapping―a wet crack. Ygritte's blood ran cold as the sounds continued and took distinction and clarity. The wind goaded her, howling encouragement against her ears to see, to discover something confounding.

Something chewing. Devouring quickly, ravenously…

She held her breath; each step placed gently down as she moved. The softened gale pressed daringly against her back. A tiny voice told her to turn away and run back to the inn where she would be safe, but forward was all she could go.

Ygritte crested the curved pinnacle along the path and saw it.

Her stomach rolled with fear that rooted her to the ground. Her mind screamed but her lungs could not expand, no sound could be uttered. Nothing but cold, inhibiting fear.

Tall, sickly, and white. Unnatural, bestial, ghastly beyond measure and comprehension, a horrible wolf.

It chomped down on a bone with tendrils of muscle and thin ligaments hanging like pink ribbons; a four-legged beast grazing the theatre floor snapped a bone in half like a match. Circling the terrible creature was a scattering of shredded flesh and sundered body parts; blood stained the flagstone, washed by the passing rain, and organs dispersed about as if it took its prey into its robust jowls and thrashed.

Ygritte tried to scream, but her lungs failed her. She tried to run, but fear held her in place, forcing her to see and bear witness to the monster plaguing the theater.

It’s stuck its lupine face in a glistening heap of steaming gore, still fresh from the kill. It ate and ate, _and_   _ate_. Chewing, crunching, eating everything in its path.

The rain let up, almost instantly. The gale drew back to a whisper, and a column of sunlight broke through the overcast, bathing the macabre remains in a glistering pillar of golden light and gore.

They said the ruins were tormented by a specter, that a forlorn woman haunted the archways, wailing, and keening until dawn.

But now Ygritte knew better;

It was the _Beast of Beauclair,_ and it was eating Lazarus.


	20. Beast of Beauclair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inadvertently, the ducal court no longer hunts for a vampire.

Ygritte's scream rent through the air as soon as reality sunk its dagger-sharp talons into her. She cried until her lungs threatened to explode until the murder of crows joined her, and then she whirled around, flying down the path from whence she came.

It had miraculously ceased raining, but the trail was still slick with mud, causing her to slip and tumble ineptly.

 _The boat!_ her thoughts reeled. _I must get to the boat quickly!_

As she stumbled, tripped, and slid down the slope, something foul and ripe akin to a rank chamberpot, slammed into her. It reacted, clawing and shrieking with equal surprise while gathering itself.

The scream tearing through Ygritte had yet to end. She scrambled back onto her feet as the hideous, naked woman, colored a corpse green spat and snorted incoherently. It leaped forward, swiping its sharp claws against Ygritte chest in a blur. She didn't move fast enough, felt her bodice rip, and a searing hot pain near her throat set fire to her chest.

Not a moment of silence had passed for Ygritte. A hellish wolf behind her, a ploughing hag before her. Her screams and the cawing crows filled her head like overwhelming chaos.

Laz was dead.

Behind her, a thundering gallop closed in, spurring her to fight past the hideous beach vagrant, and head once more for the awaiting boat.

Ygritte ducked as the hag swiped a second time, picked her skirts and fled. Hot blood trickled down her heaving chest as she ran, heart pounding in tandem with her fervid running. Her feet stuttered to gain traction in the soft earth, and her sodden slippers slipped loose.

As quickly, something hard struck the back of her head, sending white spots across her vision. She stumbled but did not fall, not with the boat so close. Dazed but undeterred, she threw herself into the craft, pushed off the banks roughly and coasted safely across the calm lake arming herself with a single oar.

Winded and numbed from the adrenaline, she pulled herself up and turned her frightened stare towards the cursed shores.

There, she locked eyes with it.

The wolf, the Beast of Beauclair watched her drift away. It stood by the abandoned beach house, a massive paw pinning the hag face down into the sand where she spat and seethed viciously. Her spindly arms flailed and legs kicked as it watched Ygritte safely cross the Seidhe Llygad.

The storm was gone. Laz, her closest friend, was dead.

And she'd survived an attack by the Beast of Beauclair.

* * *

 

A night filled with drink and revelry could not have ended on a merry note, not with a witcher around. For in Beauclair, blood and wine flowed equally and with just as much significance. Tonight, at the Mandragora, was no different; Cecilia Bellant was found dead.

A turn of weather postponed the festivities by a merely day, but fate had nonetheless found a way to claim another life. Geralt wondered what difference that made if any at all. For despite all his efforts, it was too late to save the talented artist wearing the Koviri orchid.

As such, the festivities came to an abrupt end. The music died, the concessions whisked away, and all patrons of the arts retired home unaware of what brought their celebration to a premature conclusion.

Afterward, Geralt and Anna were seated at a long dinner table while Orianna recounted her story in vivid detail.

The tale unfolded, the witcher listened carefully. So far it was understood the Cintrian nobleman was after a family heirloom once possessed by the ducal family in a time long since passed. Anna Henrietta was familiar with it and had turned quiet and despondent upon seeing the jewel, the Heart of Toussaint, in Orianna’s collection. Furthermore, it appeared the nobleman was not the blackmailer, but another pawn within the proverbial chessboard sent to retrieve said jewel.

When the discussion came to a near close, a private ward arrived, requesting a moment with Orianna in private. When she was out of earshot, the Duchess revealed something remarkable, something that brought Geralt back to the second floor of Dettlaff’s toy shop.

“My sister, Syanna,” she said softly, quite shamefully, as she played with the laced cuffs of her elegant gown. “She might be among the schemers.”

* * *

With the storm passed, the Pheasantry was overflowing with music and merry discussion until Ygritte burst inside screaming:

“THE BEAST OF BEAUCLAIR IS A RABID WOLF!”

The music stopped short. The happy prattle went mute. A ripe grape rolled off a table and bounced across the wooden floor. All eyes settled on the hysterical portly blonde with three deep gashes across her heaving chest. She was sweating and flushed all over.

A stout man Ygritte knew from the Ducal court stood, a guard. “What nonsense is this?”

“YOU!” Ygritte shrieked desperately, accosting the guard firmly. “You must go to the amphitheater now and cut it down! Before it attacks again!”

Imogen emerged from the crowd, a worry terse shadowing her delicate features.

“Imogen” Ygritte shoved the guard back to clutch Imogen in an emotional frenzy. “It ate Lazarus!! It tried to attack me, but I fled by boat across the Seidhe Llygad. _Laz is dead!_ She’s dead!” The tears sprang hotly down her cheeks. The cries racked her shoulders and crushed her lungs. Blood saturated the front bodice of her dress in ghastly crimson. Claw marks glistening.

There was a collective gasp in the tavern and then an eruption of clamor. Chairs groaned against the floor. Several Ducal guards, rattling in armor, hurried out into the courtyard, perhaps to alert the Duchess. 

Imogen pulled Ygritte away from the chaos, sat her down, then disappeared. When she came back with a washcloth started to clean Ygritte's chest wound.

“The Ducal guard will notify the Duchess,” Imogen spoke gently, seeing Ygritte press her face into her hands. “It’s a blessing you got away with only scratch. A blessing from Melitele herself, indeed.

“And Lazarus will live on in our hearts.”

* * *

Side by side, Dettlaff and Regis crept behind Orianna as she led them to the veranda. Regis said nothing at all, but his friend knew the reason for his silence. There was no attempt to broach the subject.

It was the brooding vampire who finally conceded after several moments.

“She agreed to help,” Dettlaff said with a voice as hard as flint, but it could not conceal the undertones of guilt.

The joint report of their footfalls carried the silence as they followed up the stone steps.

“Do you wish to hear my theory?” he asked. When met with silence, he continued.

“If truly capable of such _feats_ , I do believe her association will help locate Rhenawedd. They are expecting a witcher to come for them, not an animal. Imbibing our blood, as you know, allows us to sense her every whereabouts. A beacon we can follow―”

“I know why you did it.” Regis cut him off. “But it was no reason to put the life of another innocent in jeopardy. This blackmailer already has _you_ rending people apart, knights of the court no less. What will they do to her? Throw a collar of silver on her? Paint Beauclair in blood drawn by wolf teeth and Lycan claws? Were you intent to redirect the royal crosshairs from your back and onto hers?”

“That was not at all my intention, Regis.”

Both vampires drew quiet when the ascending stairs came to a landing with a wooden door. Light seeped through the narrow slats, indicating the end to their escort and the open night air beyond it. They stepped out.

“Your Grace, Geralt of Rivia,” Orianna appeared beyond an obscuring trellis silently. “I’d like to introduce―”

“Regis!” The Duchess jumped from her seat. Half the party suspected she wished to embrace the vampire, but she reined herself with dignity and poise. “I had no idea you were in Beauclair.”

The grizzled vampire bowed elegantly. “Your Grace.”

The darkening, imperceptible expression conjured by the witcher did not go unnoticed.

She eyed the brooding man bringing up the rear.

“And this is?”

Geralt stood.

“Ah, this is my dear friend Dettlaff van der Eretein," Regis eyed the witcher carefully. "He hails from Nazair and has come to provide a collective effort in the Witcher’s hunt.”

Like the Mandragora, the tense meeting between witcher, Duchess, and three higher vampires ended as quickly as it began when a page from the court arrived. After scouring the length and width of Toussaint in search for his duchess, word reached his ears that his Illustrious Grace was visiting Hauteville. It took a better part of the entire day and well into the evening to find her. Having been incognito for the duration and withholding her whereabouts from even her closest companions, it came to a surprise for all that the page successfully honed her down.

So much for being undercover, she thought.

The vampires sensed seconds before the young stumbled in, winded and white as a sheet.  He faltered to a stop with a crown of golden hair tousled by horse ride and wind.

“Your Illustrious Grace,” the boy heaved, trying to bow while catching his breath. “Your presence is being urgently requested―the Witcher’s, as well.”

“What seems to  be the matter?” Anna Henrietta furrowed her manicured brows. “Why are you here? How did you find me?"

“The Beast,” the page trembled, “Has claimed another.”


	21. Keira & Lazarus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now hunting a wolf while keeping a close eye on Dettlaff, Geralt investigates the scene, making his own suspicions about what's stalking Beauclair.

After leaving Hautville for a short rendezvousing at the palace, the ducal guard relayed the events leading up to Anna Henrietta's summoning. What was left of a body had been found at the amphitheater by a woman named Ygritte, a bar wench who worked the tavern Pheasantry Inn just across the Siedhe Llygad. The guard was unable to make a proper identification when he investigated the site, but Geralt could see the fear in the man's eyes, knew he made hardly an effort to survey the scene for fear the monster might return.

Subsequently, Geralt felt he had enough intel to return to the theater, but as he prepared to do so, the Duchess stopped him for a quiet word.

"You told me it was a vampire we were searching for," her voice sibilated. "What's this  _werewolf_ he speaks of?"

"That I don't know," the witcher muttered, tightening the belts around Roach's healthy girth. "But I'll soon find out when I get to the theater. Coming?"

"Absolutely not, Geralt. The knight's report is enough fuel for a week's worth of nightmares. Go, and when you find it, kill it. That's an order."

* * *

Despite the late hour, Geralt and the others found the square congregating with locals after the propagating news.

Arriving the square by horseback, they headed directly to the Pheasantry Inn where the murmuring crowd seemed to concentrate. Curious prattle of question regarding who died, where they were found, and who happened upon the human remains drifted among the crowd's thickening edges. The further they traversed, the more focused and coherent the rumors made themselves. More and more onlookers spotted the witcher moving across the square, straight for the Inn where the survivor was said to be waiting. By the time they reached the first cobblestones of the Pheasantry, Geralt had an accurate idea what happened, while also comparing it to what the guard found.

The witcher dismounted first, followed by Regis and Dettlaff silently emerging from a shadowy insert, unnoticed by the locals by their unnatural appearance.

"Master witcher!" A man holding his child called. The tyke turned her head, blotched red from tears clung to the lapel of her father's jerkin.

"The witcher's here!" someone young squealed with delight.

"Do something, sir!" another pleaded.

"We cannot keep living in constant fear!"

More words flew at him the closer they got to the tavern. Some scathing, few admirable.

"How long has he been here?" A young man grumbled under his breath. "What's taking him so bloody long?"

Another one spat contemptuously, muttering Geralt's favorite.

" _Freak_."

"Do your job, witcher!"

And the rare, " _Ohh_ , Miri. Look how handsome the White Wolf is."

Suddenly, a commotion came from the front as a woman shoved her way through the crowd with sharp elbows, crying caustically and alerting the trio like a screeching gull.

"Witcher! Oh, dear witcher! The Beast of Beauclair!" she wept, flushed, and struggled to catch her breath as she stumbled to a stop before them. "A woman! Gutted at the amphitheater! You must! Cut it down!  _You must_!"

"Where's the witness?" he asked.

The woman took Geralt firmly by the hand, nearly dragging him the remaining way. The vampires followed quietly behind.

The overcast had dispersed, leaving the town humid, hot, and uncomfortable. Inside, the crowded and noisy tavern was hardly better. Shouts and exclaims of the news resounded off the walls. Locals dreaming of pitchforks and torches swore to protect their duchy, threatened to assimilate their local militia if the ducal guards nor the witcher could not perform to standard.

All eyes fell on the witcher and the two vampires at once. The voiceless drone of their discussion stop, an unnatural silence followed.

In the furthest corner sat a voluptuous blonde, red and tense in the face. Across the blonde's chest was a bandage soaked in blood. By her side, a dull brunette coddled, wiping away the flood of tears falling quietly over her round cheeks.

With Dettlaff and Regis at his flanks, Geralt marched, shouldering his way through and ignoring the cutting remarks of those standing in his way. Regis quietly pardoned the witcher's behavior until they came before the two barmaids.

"Are you Ygritte?" Geralt asked at once.

She looked up with bloodshot eyes and nodded. Her bottom lip trembled as she tried to keep her composure.

"Aye," her voice rasped.

"My name's Geralt. I'm a witcher."

* * *

"I know who you are," her voice broke with a trembling lip. She could barely hold herself together. "You came by once before. I waited your table."

Regis looked over towards the brunette and spoke softly in her ear.

"Is there somewhere we can go for some peace?"

"Right this way."

Imogen was her name, and she led the trio and the witness upstairs where the room was in disarray.

"Start from the beginning," Geralt said, pulling up a chair and resting his elbows on his thighs. The five stood in a bedroom which had been tossed to pieces. A shattered looking glass littered the floor. The sharp jagged remains held by the wooden frame bisected Geralt's reflection morbidly.

Ygritte blinked and looked down shaking hands. "You'll think I'm mad."

"I assure you," said Regis politely. "Nothing you can say will surprise Geralt. He is a witcher after all."

Nodding, Ygritte took a deep, shaky breath and began.

But witcher was surprised after she recounted her story in such rich detail. Either the woman was well into her cups or ate mushrooms and now hallucinated it all.

"Horns?" Geralt repeated, glancing back at Regis. Even Dettlaff was listening intently.

"You promised not to think me insane!" she whined.

"What did her legs look like? This detail is important."

"Why, like yours or mine; normal, I suppose. I wasn't looking at her feet. Not with everything else to look at!"

"Nothing out of the ordinary? Perhaps, hirsute with hooves?"

The barmaid blinked and shook her head.

"What else? Her ears, what did they look like?"

"Pointed, like an elf's. I'm sorry, master witcher, but what does this have to do with the beast that killed her?"

"Identification purposes."

Ygritte nodded solemnly. "Then you should also know my friend had different colored eyes, said she was born that way. But after all the other stuff, they were the same color. She was like a completely different person, kept mentioning something about  _the Eye._ "

"Hmm. What else?"

"Also blamed her late mother for the strange affliction." Ygritte looked down at her soft hands regretfully. "I should mention I hit her rather hard across the head with a frying pan. She was rambling nonsense."

"Do you happen to know who her mother was?"

"Yes. Keira Metz. She was a sorceress from Velen, but she's dead now."

* * *

Geralt and the vampires found themselves crossing towards the western shores of Seidhe Llygad for tracks and other clues. The post-storm humidity provided miserable conditions for the witcher. Under the thick, hardened leather, he was sweating and irritated. Regis and Dettlaff were dandy, even if the latter was at ill-ease. Geralt presumed Dettlaff's presence was only by the fact that now the town believed a wolf was the culprit to all the slayings. In truth, he preferred to keep a watchful eye on the vampire even if it meant tethering him to Roach.

"Came by boat," the witcher repeated, "Walked the shores, but came running back."

He followed a trickle of blood, leading them right to a dead water hag sprawled next to a small beach shack. Her skull's crushed, and her throat ripped out.

"Must have run into the hag while she was fleeing. That's what scratched her chest. The wolf, pursuing her, got caught up, sidetracked, and stopped here."

Regis glanced over the corpse, scrunching his nose repugnantly. "Smells divine, wouldn't you say, Geralt?"

They followed the second set of tracks; pawprints as large as the witcher's head led to a rising path towards the theater.

"Ah, trails continues." Geralt knelt, placing his entire hand in track's depression with room to spare. "What did I say, Regis?"

"That it would be only a matter of time," the barber-surgeon muttered. The vampires shared a look but said nothing to the witcher. As they went on, he was about to continue his lecture on cursed beings until they came upon the theater's clearing, where the smell and sight forced a moment of quiet reconsideration.

The scene was nothing out of the witcher's scope of exposure, but it was unexpected. Behind, the vampires remained silent, observing both the grisly remains and the witcher at work.

Geralt took a sobering respire and knelt to pick up what was left of the victim's head by a black horn slick with blood. Ygritte had explained her belief thoroughly; her friend was afflicted by a curse. Black horns and a tail were provided to describe the woman, but all that remained of her now was hardly recognizable. A mortal fissure bisected the female's features, akin to a battle ax wound he'd seen far too many times, if not for one clue; the fragmented pieces still clinging bowed out, as if something blew her face open from the inside. One eye stared wide and fixed; the other was missing from its socket. An unhinged jaw hung open with broken teeth and split lips. Geralt tilted it, and blood spilled out like thick, red wine from her slackened mouth. He brushed the hair aside to check the ears; pointed, but elves did not sprout horns. He looked over and saw Regis eyeing the skull in his hands with a wounded expression. What words of consolation he could provide failed him. Perhaps Regis was right in believing she was harmless, but as a witcher came to learn quickly, cursed beings had a way of ruining their own lives.

The grizzled vampire looked up at the night sky. Dettlaff sternly observed the blood-spattered flagstone, attempting to understand but failing.

The Witcher got to work, keeping the skull in his possession for more than investigational purposes. Firstly, she had horns. Which, in any other typical and frequent occurrence, would indicate Laz was a succubus, if not for the very human legs, err, what was left of them. During their short and abrupt encounters, he also knew she had heterochromatic eyes. If that was indicative of anything, it wasn't known to him and therefore useless. Geralt had seen the wolf first hand, but no werewolf took the form of a woman with horns. Where did the horns come from? Why hadn't he seen them before now?

Furthermore, the mention of Keira Metz troubled his mind. The first day Geralt met Keira she'd openly shared with him her intention of becoming pregnant that very night. However, sorceresses are infertile. Had she managed somehow? Or had Keira stole in the night and retrieved a child from the cradle to claim for her own? Not at all impossible, but as Geralt knew personally, Keira could not be sat down for questioning. Which explained why Laz never liked him from the beginning but had overlooked it for the consensus that a good majority of people didn't like him period.

After several long, ponderous moments, frustration set in. More than the sweltering heat was getting to the witcher. The bustling town of Beauclair had now assigned an image to Beast of Beauclair who, Geralt knew, was not a wolf at all. But the duchy, as he also knew, wanted his efforts split two ways: between a vampire that stood several paces away and a wolf he'd yet to set eyes on.

"It must have been a fight for territory," he stated bluntly, after serious consideration. "One Lazarus obviously lost. That's the only explanation I have. Perhaps she's a changeling of some sort." But even those don't come with horns, he omitted. Still, he was unconvinced. It sounded good, but it was in pieces. Too much was missing. The moon was not in another ten days; how could a werewolf attack now? And what of Lazarus, who was not a werewolf nor a succubus. What of the Eye she'd recently come in contact with, revealing her true identity  _was_ the horns and all else? Moreover, where did Keira come into all this?

Were they dealing with multiple beasts in Beauclair? Highly possible.

"I think Ygritte might be mistaken. She couldn't have seen a werewolf, not without a full moon." Geralt concluded. "Tavern wenches are known to fabricate stories, to bring in more patrons."

"I don't believe that was her intention," Dettlaff muttered, staring at a twisted tail, naked as a rat's with a tuft of bloody white fur at the tip.

"Nonetheless, something killed her," Geralt added. "I need to hunt it down before it kills again."

Regis stared down at what was left of Lazarus and reflected. He'd seen this before, with her in fact. A vision showed a wolf eating human remains. At the time, he didn't understand what it all meant. Also, there'd been crows, but the hour was late, and no crows blotted the sky. But as Regis knew, they were intelligent creatures. Perhaps they saw something. While Geralt sought the wolf, he needed to return to the cemetery and find himself a willing corvid.

"Geralt," the barber-surgeon spoke, stopping the Witcher short of leaving. "I must ask before you go."

"What is it?"

"Is it true you killed Keira Metz?"


	22. Dun Tynne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is one step closer to solving the mystery of Syanna, Rhenawedd, and Lazarus. Meanwhile, Dettlaff discovers he's been had. Regis feels a chill.
> 
> Next chapter: Laz is thirsty for more than just blood. Geralt and her meet in the middle to discuss Keira's involvement and why she's so special.

"Dettlaff, will you accompany me to the cemetery?" Regis proposed as the figure of Geralt was carried swiftly away by horseback. "I must see to a few things."

"Certainly." The taller vampire emerged at his side, also regarding the witcher's retreat into the black thicket. But before they could set off for the cemetery, Regis saw in the corner of his eye, a look.

"Back in Hauteville," Dettlaff said, staring down at him, "When you and the witcher stepped way. I must ask what it was you two discussed and did it involve my Rhena?"

Regis frowned. He had hoped such matters wouldn't be pressed but knowing Dettlaff as he did...

"I am not at the liberty to say," the barber-surgeon said softly. "Were it any other way, I would tell you all that there is to know."

He turned away, heading back towards the path that wound around the theater then opened out onto the quiet beach below.

Dettlaff did not respond right away, but Regis knew despite the silence, his friend was brooding for a retort.

The pair, darkly attired with pale skin almost glowing amidst the gloom, traversed the darkness as comfortably and assuredly as if it were day.

"I feared you would say that," Dettlaff finally grumbled, pulling himself from his thoughts, "Why do you wish to keep things from me? Have I not done enough for you?"

The barber-surgeon nearly stopped but walked on.

_Indeed, Dettlaff. You have done enough for me alone, for a lifetime. Until the end of days, I will spend my last breath repaying you. It hurts me even to deny you something so simple, but I must protect you, from yourself and the witcher._

"My actions have left a wound on this place; an ugly, festering gash that refuses to heal." Dettlaff continued with a firm voice as if reading his thoughts, "Once I free her, I will leave Toussaint."

He paused and Regis knew what was to follow, hated the inevitability of the question and its answer.

"When that time arises, will you leave with me?"

This time Regis did stop and turned to face him, smiling faintly.

"Of course," he said without hesitation, "It is the least I can do."

The vampire's stern expression darkened significantly.

" _Is it_?" Dettlaff countered bitterly. "How is it you keep secrets from me  _now_? What has changed?"

"Nothing has changed."

Regis watched the space between them shrink until both vampires were toe-to-toe. Even in the thick shadows, with the Seidhe Llygad lapping the shores, and the spray of stars overhead amidst a slowly fattening moon. The hurt was evident because not only did he observe it, but it affected him too; the profound uncertainty destiny had at hand; the guilt so dark, it swallowed hope and light and all redemption. He felt it because he is Regis, and before him stood his blood brother. Two parts of a whole; Yin and Yang. One cannot be without the other.

"Then tell me," Dettlaff choked, struggling within himself. "Where is Rhena? And why are you taking me to the cemetery instead of to her?"

A moment passed. A falling star raced across the sky, towing a fiery tail. The palace was beautiful in the backdrop, basking in the silver moonlight. He thought of Laz, with her pretty eyes and long hair white as the moon he now gazed upon.

"She's at Castle Dun Tynne." Regis finally conceded with a sigh. "But another woman may be responsible for your Rhenawedd's abduction; the Duchess' sister, Syanna. Geralt fears you will act out of anger and irrationality. He wants both of them alive. Her Grace demands it."

It was time to head for the Caroberta Woods.

"As for our return to the graveyard," Regis added over his shoulder, "I wish to ask the crows for one more favor."

* * *

Saddled and armed, Geralt rode off utilizing his witcher senses. The tracks led south around the shores then northward, leaving behind Regis and Dettlaff at the theater.

As he rode, he pondered:

In the event, he was dealing with a natural wolf, or something enchanted with a curse, both swords were oiled. However, this gave him no measure of confidence. Admittedly, the fact that the skull appeared to have burst from internal pressure was also as odd and misleading as it was difficult to understand, much less explain.

Were Vesemir still here, he would send Geralt back and demand a more thorough investigation, but the last thing the witcher needed was a rogue animal terrorizing Beauclair. Not only that, but Captain de la Tour was expecting him before midnight so they could storm Castle Dun Tynne together.

It was worth the coin, he told himself, and the ache in his knee and shoulders was merely from lack of sleep and not old age.

For several hours and well into the gloam, the witcher wandered the thicket and hillocks, drifting further from the inner city until the tracks, once spread apart in leaps and bounds, ended as a trot that ascended a hillside.

There, perched at the top, sat the wolf.

* * *

The massive crow, barely perceptible in the darkness, swooped down from the spindly boughs and alighted gently upon Regis' proffered forearm. The man, a nonhuman as it knew, spoke softly and in a dead, ancient language not even most creatures knew.

The crow listened, and when it was its turn, spoke quickly and eagerly, too curious itself to withhold details, even if it meant several more tasty treats.

 _There was a cry_ , it said.  _A call! A plea! For our help. Summoned, we came! What is she? What is she! Lost. Lost, we lost her._

"Where was she heading?"

The crow puffed up and snapped its beak once, then turned its head northeastern.

The vampire reached into his satchel, procuring a small blue egg. The crow danced happily upon his arm, took the egg by the beak, and lifted off into the night.

"What did it say?" Dettlaff's foreboding figure separated itself from the shadows.

"She's alive. It also appears your plan worked. The crow informed me she was last seen heading for the Dun Tynne region. Where, as you know, the witcher happens to be heading with the Ducal guards."

Dettlaff lowered his dark head and listened. Regis waited, having done the same incentive the moment he left the Mandragora several times over, but he knew.

"You won't feel her, Dettlaff."

"Then we must go, now. We have to find Laz before the Witcher does."

* * *

It sat on its haunches upon the hill's crest with its back facing the witcher. Obscured by the alders and birches, he dismounted silently, drawing silver with less than a whisper. A slender white body now blue in the darkness.

The witcher took one step, and a branch snapped beneath his heel.

The wolf perked its ears up and turned. Then it was gone.

Before the witcher could mutter a curse, it was bolting down the opposing hillside and vanished from sight.

Mounting swiftly, Geralt heeled Roach into a furious gallop. They tore off together, breaking into a clearing. Around the hill, he caught a glimpse of the beast disappearing into a black wall of trees several meters away. With the broad side of his sword, he slapped Roach's hip and held the reins tight.

_Closer._

The witcher gained steadily and quickly. The dark earth flew beneath Roach like a black sea, her hooves thundering.

_Closer._

The wolf darted lithely through the birches, between rocks and obstructing boulders. The chestnut mare leaped, turning sharply and expertly weaving between the uneven terrain. She wasn't letting up, but neither was the wolf.

_Closer._

With his silver sword drawn, he leaned into the wind, streamlining with Roach as she galloped through the thicket at a breakneck speed. The starlight bled through the canopy, refracted across his sharp blade. His eyes were glowing like a hellish flame.

_Closer._

The wolf leaped across a narrow ravine. Roach followed without interrupting her smooth gallop. Geralt braced his legs in the stirrups, standing up from the saddle. His determined mare picked up speed, eating the space between her relentless pursuit and its fleeting paws.

_Closer._

The witcher lifted his sword and smote fiercly.

At the last second, the wolf looked back, with one blue eye and one gold.

* * *

"Then I suggest we follow the Witcher." Dettlaff stated gravely. "Intercept him, then stop the girl before she reaches Dun Tynne."

"Perhaps you're right but, before we set off, promise me that nothing will befall the Duchess' sister."

Displeased, Dettlaff set his lips into a thin line but considered it.

"I promise, Regis." he grumbled, "Another thing, my dear friend."

Regis paused.

"I'm sorry," the dark-haired vampire muttered. A flicker of hope danced in his eyes.

"For everything. I hope one day you'll forgive me."

* * *

Geralt turned his elbow abruptly in an attempt to throw off the blow, but it was too late. The wolf caught the blade tip across the face.

Blood, black in the shadows, sprayed. It howled like a demon and with such inhuman register, it frightened his mare and even lifted the hairs on the back of the witcher's neck on end.

Roach sped past, rearing and tossing her head, and stamping her hooves.

"Easy, Roach!"

Geralt dismounted before she could throw him off her back, landing jarringly on his feet where his knee sang with chronic pain. He sheathed his sword and turned back, running despite his throbbing knee.

 _I've made a mistake,_ he realized.  _Lazarus is not dead. The horns, the tail. Her eyes._

_Keira. Keira, what have you done?_

He followed Roach's tracks back, unbothered by the concealing darkness. Like the fireflies around him, two golden orbs drifted through the shadows, narrowing and darting across the earth, seeking the fallen wolf, but his efforts fell short.

It was gone.

A dark puddle of blood, still warm, was all that remained and no trail led him away from it.

Confused, Geralt looked around and listened; he held his breath and strained his witcher senses.

But it was gone.

* * *

_Kees Morellis was far too drunk to have much care in the world. But as the adage went, out of the mouths of babes and drunks, the truth emerged. And it was the truth that he had a soft spot for animals, from creepy spiders to paws, hooves, and feathers._

_So when the lads heard scratching at the walls and soft whimpering, they peered curiously over the steep fortress of Dun Tynne and saw the injured animal bleeding horribly and faltering like a drunk barely able to stand on its own._

_It was Kees who suggested they mend it back together, instead of putting it out of its misery. They howled and cackled, but obeyed when they noted the stern expression and all seriousness displayed; Kees was their highest ranking officer, also. They had to follow orders._

_After observing it, but it seemed too incoherent to pose a threat. The lackeys led it inside where they discovered the cause of so much blood. A fair slice of skin was nearly flayed from its muzzle_

"Caught by the razor-sharp edge of a sword," the medic gathered. "Only a few bits of flesh hold it intact."

"Can you stitch it back on? Staunch the bleeding?"

One eye was blinded by blood, no matter how often it blinked, more of it pooled into its sight from the gash. The other was a vivid blue, which had difficulty focusing on anyone, or anything and moved about its socket, dazed.

"It's dying. The wound is already infected. Look! It's turning black."

"Mhm." The medic nodded.

After administering sutures so that the torn skin was now attached, they applied a numbing salve and wrapped its snout in bandages.

"Whatever cut its face, filleted the skin down to the bone. I don't think it's gonna make it 'til morn, sir."

"It can't even walk on its own. D'see how it staggered?"

"Aye, but I can't just leave it out there without a fighting chance," Kees hiccuped, eyes stinging with pity. "I'll carry it down to the dungeons. If it's still alive come the morrow, I'll release it."

 _But morning never came for Kees_ _Morellis, the man with a soft heart for animals,_ _and neither did it for his men._

* * *

Lazarus woke startled and confused.

Firstly, there was screaming, which was the initial reason she woke at all. Secondly, there was a sharp, clanging report that plucked her senses like the taut strings of a broken lute. Someone banging against steel. Blood, damp earth, and mildew saturated the air. She was lying on her back, against the cold ground, looking up where even more dirt provided a roof with thick tree roots and other vegetation seeping through the soil like stalactites.

_I'm underneath the ground. Are those prison bars?_

Stiffened and weak, she sat up through the throbbing pain, and puked, adding an additional smell with all the other overwhelming sensories.

 _This isn't right_ , she thought, then hissed in pain. _Oh, fuck. Ow._

 _Why am I here in a dungeon?_ she looked around, asking inwardly.  _Where did you bring me?_

A dull ache ricocheted through her like a war hammer, reverberating her newly knitted bones down to the marrow. It wasn't blood she up sucked this time, thankfully, just bile from an empty stomach and the expectant, but debilitating, pain that came with the nature of her talent.

The shrieks continued in the neighboring cell with the smell of urine fouling the air. After pissing himself, her dungeon associate found the furthest corner from her and hurled insults.

Laz wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and glared at him. Just a moment of silence, that's all she wanted. A quiet respite to collect her thoughts and think of an escape. Things were already confusing enough. Screaming and shouting made no difference, Laz nor her wolf carcass were going anywhere.

Around her were the leftovers: a bloody pelt and broken bones. Horrible to look at, but nothing out of the ordinary. The only issue was the hysterical witness, who found it incredibly unordinary and even more so disturbing.

Laz pulled herself up from the floor and crawled towards a corner where there was a humble stack of moldy hay. She buried herself in it, gathering it closely to conceal her naked chest and intimate lower parts. It reeked, but otherwise concealed her.

The dungeon smelled as Laz imagined it would. Of rust, sickness, and now hot screaming softened to hysterically relieved gasping as an unseen door drew open.

"Come quick!" the prisoner shrieked, smashed the stool he initially used to bang against his bars. "Down here! The Devil Herself is down here!"

Guards, cackling amongst themselves, ambled down the steps. Each footfall bounced off the walls like a death clock ticking down.

Another swell of sickness clawed up its way up her throat.

This one of fear.


	23. Syanna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laz tells Syanna a little about her first encounter with Dettlaff.

Syanna paced.

In the small but lavish parlor room within Castle Dun Tynne's highest keep, she paced. Thoughts of severe retribution and the conclusion of all her cunning plans swirled like a maelstrom all around her, black and seething. It was closing in on her. No longer was she preserved and safe within the eye. But Syanna refused to allow its weathering to terse her expression; the calm before the storm. She was the calm  _and_ the storm.

Unfortunately, several snags were threatening to destroy her mild demeanor. With the conclusion as close as it was, any snag to reveal itself nearly threw her into a rage. Especially this most recent transgression which stung not only because of the timing but its intimate significance.

 _Dettlaff_ , her former lover and now inadvertent accomplice, had gone quiet. The remaining victims still wandered the Beauclair cobblestone, under the bright sunshine with their glistening armor. Furthermore, the Duchess had summoned a witcher to tie up loose ends. Although the threatening letters continued to deliver, her accomplice was not responding, or that he was deliberately disobeying.

The fangs of frustration and icy betrayal soon sank into Syanna's veins.

Had the witcher narrowed in on Dettlaff? she wondered. Did he flee for his life, abandoning their unbreakable bond out of fear and preservation? Was their love cast off?

Syanna cursed his name and paced.

Recently, a body was discovered amidst elven ruins. The news was a drop of water in the parched desert. Syanna had jumped excitedly only to find it was not an individual on her list. A woman, no less, and not even Anna, but the work of a copycat. Blood was running dry while the wine continued to flow, for the citizens of Toussaint spoke less and less about the beast and more about the witcher. They were fascinated with him.

Syanna placed a bounty on his head.

_So close…_

The rapid report of footfalls hurling up the stairs caused her to pause and look. The door banged and thudded when they came to an ungraceful stop, nearly colliding into the surface of the door, knocked rapidly, then threw it open.

"M-my Lady!" The first one pitched into the room, nearly landing face first. "There's s-something you must see down in the h-holding cells!"

Syanna stepped back, disgusted with the display and the interruption.

"What is this nonsense you speak? Stop blathering! Gather yourself. One at a time!"

"Madam, Officer Morellis happened upon an injured animal during the late evening." The second, more composed brigand began, "I told him to put it out of its misery, but he insisted! So we patched it up and placed it in the dungeons, but now there's no wolf down there, only what's left of it. A woman, m'Lady, crawled from its carcass."

"Born like a demon!" howled the first guard. "It's a massacre down there!"

"Are you mad?" Syanna snapped, narrowing her blue eyes. "Do you even  _hear_ yourself?"

"Please," the second guard breathed. "Come, to the dungeons. You must see it for yourself."

Now she was marching across the property for the holding cells which, like many castles in Toussaint, meant it was beneath the ground. Lit by torches mounting the walls, the stairs led the trio down in the pits.

Her escorts, the hysterical brigands who'd never seen even a substantially large bat, could not stop bickering over what they saw.

"Shut up!" Syanna barked over her shoulder. "Both of you!"

She turned the corner, following the narrow path between the stonewalls and the barred, rusty cells and stopped short.

* * *

Syanna turned her head away quickly to suppress a gag with the back of her hand. The air was thick with assaulting smells from wet iron to acrid piss, to vomit. Insects buzzed, a prisoner whimpered from across the room incessantly.

Still holding a hand to her mouth, Syanna braved a second glance at the creature. Naked as a newborn, just as bloody and confused, she sat in the middle of a shallow mound of hay with her arms wrapped around herself, shivering. As the guards said, the aforementioned dire wolf was off to the side, dead with its ribs cracked apart and guts splayed across the floor, turning the dungeons into more of a slaughterhouse. Again, Syanna swore and looked away, breathing carefully. Congealed blood, clumps of dirt, and the girl's gore matted her white hair. As if these were not significant enough, her eyes were also two different colors.

"What the hell is this?" Syanna grimaced. "Can you speak? Can you understand me?"

"Yes," the girl trembled, hunching over to preserve her modesty amidst the moldy hay.

"What curse claims you? Are you a sort of werewolf? A demon?"

"Cursed?" the girl repeated with an unsteady voice. "Perhaps. Werewolf, though, I am not."

"Well you must be," Syanna continued dryly, pointing. "My men found that wolf outside, wandering the dark and now its nothing but a carcass. Answer me, or I'll have your pretty eyes gouged and that tongue torn from your head."

"I don't know!" the girl winced with a rictus of pain. "I don't know, but... I'm  _not_  a werewolf."

"She's a witch!" the other prisoner wailed. "You should have seen it! She broke out of it like a parasite hatching from its host!"

Syanna glared at him then turned back to the girl. "What's your name?"

After a moment, she sighed wearily and said, "Laz."

"What brings you to Dun Tynne,  _Laz_? Did you get lost? Does the Duchy know there's a werewolf prowling about?"

"I'm not a werewolf," Laz spat again bitterly.

Syanna crossed her arms and ignored her.

"And whom are you looking for?"

Laz shuddered from the damp air and clutched herself tighter. She glanced around, regarding all the empty cells besides her own and her skittish neighbor who couldn't take his beady eyes off of her. Rhenawedd was not in there unless she was a spooked man or wasn't being held captive at all.

Or she was already dead.

"Rhenawedd," Laz muttered, feeling defeated and lost now that she found herself inexplicably at Dun Tynne. "I was told she was somewhere nearby."

Syanna stiffened and looked at her askance.

"What?" Syanna said sharply, uncrossing her arms. " Where did you hear that name?"

* * *

_But it became apparent, there was an acquaintance between her and Dettlaff by the sheer response alone._ _The mercurial woman with an unforgiving beauty was not at all pleased to hear what Lazarus had said, which was everything._

"That  _fiend_ ," the dark-haired woman seethed, pacing the narrow corridor with tall polished boots, brown slacks, and a fashionable navy corset. She seemed out of place therein the dungeon. Like Keira in Velen. Too pretty to be surrounded by such refuse.

The woman spat and swore coarsely, calling all gods, old and new, in vain. Even the Duchess was not immune from such ill-addresses.

"How fitting," she snarled, voice rising with each clipping step. "Dettlaff's forgotten about me, turned his back, abandoned our love! For  _you?"_ she giggled maliciously. "That brute, that  _blood-sucking_   _animal_!" She grabbed a nearby stool and tossed it across the room. It crashed into a nearby lackey who was too distracted to see the sailing object.

Laz lifted her brow in surprise. It was apparent now with whom she was speaking to. All introductory withheld, this woman was Rhenawedd.

Suddenly, the dark-haired woman stopped her furious stalking, turned towards the cell once more, and gripped the bars firmly.

Laz leaned back, gathering more foul hay to protect her center mass as if Rhenawedd's look alone could shoot daggers.

"He  _used_ you, you lecherous heap of garbage.  _Look at you_." she snarled again, flushing prettily, viciously. "Thin as a rake, ugly as sin. A werewolf's blood taste foul to a vampire! Do you know that? Of course, you don't. Stupid dolt. You'll see."

As quickly as the ire swelled, it dissipated. Rhenawedd closed her eyes and sighed deeply, calming herself.

"It's not your fault," she said softly. "He must have charmed you, saw an opportunity to bypass the drunk guards and what do you know? It worked. We were expecting a vampire or several. Not an overgrown mutt."

Rhenawedd smoothed back her dark hair which was tied back from her face.

"What a clever monster," she sighed, almost wistfully. "Clever, indeed. But just so we are clear, you will not be leaving here alive-"

A crash came from the top of the stairs; a guard heaving and bleeding mortally from horrific gash split across his mouth faltered over the threshold.

"The Wither!" he choked on loosened teeth, blood pouring down his face and across his pummeled lips as he leaned against the frame. "Heth cleared the cathle walls. He'th….he'th…"

Then his knees buckled, throwing him face down the stairs, tumbling and rolling disruptively, until alas arriving at the feet of Rhenawedd, dead.


	24. Dungeons and Damsels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and the vampires converge on Castle Dun Tynne. Laz is reunited with her favorite vampire.

Pandamonium fell on the keep of Dun Tynne.

The moment the witcher landed lithely on his feet, sword drawn and eyes glowing like embers the brigands broke into a panic, scrambling for their swords, maces, and halberds. 

Six charged at once. An archer stood back and took aim.

Like the fire roaring from the witcher's hand, alarm spread through the castle walls, the cold earth, and into the belly of the dungeons where Laz pushed herself further into the corner and fiercely stalled another change. Overhead, the pounding of hooves resonated back and forth; death throes and clashing steel; fire hissing and whooshing, more howling screams fell subsequently.

Laz closed her eyes and focused on breathing through her nose. Her skin was taut and paper thin across her bones. The proverbial stirring now warmed the pit of her belly, coaxing her to relax and surrender but she could not, not here, not now. Something darker than fear, something more primitive was taking over by the mere mention of the witcher. She was afraid of him, terribly.

What had changed?

Laz heard the softest whine beneath the din rumbling overhead.

_If the witcher comes down here if he finds me… I'll change. It'll be slow. I'll be at such a disadvantage. He'll chop its head off, or I'll be stuck somewhere in between._

There wasn't the strength to change. What if it tried? What if the wolf attempted despite her silent pleads?

_Not here. Not now._

Rhenawedd and her lackeys fled immediately. The dungeon was now empty sans herself and her incontinent fellow, but it mattered not. The brawl overhead continued like a storm with the same dull percussion felt through the roof of the holding cells. It shook and trembled, loosening dust and rocks that rained down on the individuals below.

Laz gritted her teeth and forged through the pain.

* * *

Dun Tynne was seized in minutes.

With the witcher surprising them with a rear attack, the ducal guard pushed forward delivering a blindsided assault from the front gate.

Geralt left the garden and entered the courtyard. Something blew past him, concussing his ears. Gusts of wind dispersing in black and red smoke lingered longer than the physical manifestation of each vampire. Men several paces before Geralt cried fiercely and charged. Their heads were torn from their shoulder before their axes or halberds could bear down. Blood spewed and splattered. The next lackey's throat was swiftly slashed with flashes of claws. He saw bared teeth, heard their hisses and following screams. Blood sprayed, severed limbs flew. Each time the vampires disappeared, a drum batted against his ears as if the pocket of air itself caved in.

Bodies fell all around, but the witcher kept with the pace, striking with his sword, hacking legs, arms, and faces. Cries were cut short. Others choked on the blood flooding their chests and mouths. Clenching fists holding on to their wounds unfurled, only to be stepped on by retreating groups. Those fleeing were chased down and dragged back to be ripped to pieces by the vampires, or fell beneath Geralt's sharp steel.

A hand shot through a man's chest before Dettlaff appeared directly behind, a heart beating in his pale hands. At the same time, a thick smoke wrapped around another man's head, cleaving off the entire top half before it was made sure to be Regis. Geralt leaped, bounded, pirouetted and danced in the only way he could- with his sword and his Signs.

The courtyard fell quiet but, this time remained.

* * *

Trembling until her teeth rattled, Laz clung to herself amidst the damp hay and fought the spasms. The stirring warmth had spread from her belly to her thighs now. Her knees knocked, breath was riven and short. It was cold then it was hot. It was loud, then quiet, then loud again. Men were screaming, but their words were indistinct. The sounds from above grated her senses, while the sounds coming from the cell next to her brought anger so black, she wanted to kill him if it meant a moment of silence. She thought about crossing the cell and snatching him up between the bars, then throttling him until he passed out. But there wasn't the strength to stand, much less strangle a man who smelled like hot piss.

"Shut it!" she screamed. "Shut it, will you! Be quiet!"

He did not.

Another bone-cracking spasm contorted her figure, which elicited even more shrieking cries. They were both frightened.

_Not here. Not now!_

Images of the bandits surrounding a fire came to her. A glowing sword; snake eyes; a sliver of moon and the pain so great. It hadn't reached that point, but she knew, it was only a matter of time.

Geralt, as the guards told it, was up top. Why was Geralt here? Had he come for Rhenawedd too?

"Please," she grunted, clenching her teeth to stop the chattering. "Please!"

The mere thought of the witcher twisted her body with a sharp crack. Thrown to the floor, she howled louder than her neighbor and clawed at the ground madly.

The cold air kissed her bare chest which heaved, cracked, and threatened to break apart. The pain arrived, burning the muscles of her clenched jaw until her teeth chattered. Blood flooded her mouth and the back of her throat. Her vision blotted and the warmth she was so accustomed to now felt like a fire scouring her insides.

In a shameful moment of utter weakness, under waves of agony resonating through her, she screamed a name.

* * *

Before the ducal guards had broken through the gate, the three entered the castle, heading straight for the keep.

Regis and Geralt were just about to take to the stairs after Dettlaff when Regis came to an abrupt halt. The witcher, to keep from colliding with the vampire, pivoted and hurried past.

The vampire was rooted, listening as if being called from far away.

Geralt turned suddenly, looking down over his shoulder. "What is it?"

"Something-," the vampire winced, shutting his eyes and baring his fangs in pain.

Again, a second shudder raced down Regis' spine like a shock of cold water. He took a step back, blinking then looked up at the witcher.

"Go, I'll be right there."

He turned and headed back out into the courtyard quickly.

* * *

Laz felt as if her lungs would collapse. This did not stop her. She filled her lung once more and screamed again, and again.

_It is a curse. This, all of this. Keira lied to me. She used me. I feel trapped, hindered._

_Broken…_

_Help me…_

_Help me…_

Through the pain, through the desperation, and the panic, she screamed his name like a prayer. Black blood trickled from her nose and ears as she wailed like a banshee. She cursed the wolf. She cursed her mother's name. Inside, her guts were twisting and knotting themselves like a pit of coiled snakes made of molten iron.

_You said I would feel you, and you would feel me._

But Laz felt nothing but fear, the cold ground, and her own bones snapping apart. Was she too late? 

 _It's all in my head._ _This terrible pain, I wish for it to all stop. I can't live like this.  I just want to sleep..._

_It's yours, wolf. By the gods, you can have it all. I just want to sleep._

The door at the top of the stairs flew open with such force it crashed into the wall and rattled upon its hinges. Her ears popped painfully, jaw tight until her teeth began to crack. Then, someone was inside her cell, impossibly bypassing the locks, even the bars, and gathering her into their arms.

She opened her eyes full of tears while cold hands smelling of sage, mint, and thyme wiped the blood and hair from her face.

"I'm here," the vampire said softly, assuringly as he cradled her.

"Regis," she gasped with such intense relief at first she laughed hysterically, then she cried. She gripped his shoulders with her broken hands and pulled him close. He knew before even Laz was aware of what she wanted for an open cut awaited her hungry mouth. She latched on and pulled roughly and greedily. His touch and caress, the scent of him enveloped all her senses like a calming charm and staved off the coming shift while the blood soothed her corroded insides.

The other prisoner started to scream again.

* * *

They buttoned the entire length of the garb down to her knees. She shivered as he worked the buttons through, unable to use her own hands with such mangled fingers. He glanced at the dead animal behind her and grimaced.

"Lazarus," he breathed, stopping to touch her bloodied cheek gently.

She shut her eyes and turned her face away.

"Why have you kept this a secret?" he looked around, "I could have helped you.  _This is..."_

"I didn't think you would understand," she sighed tiresomely. "Not even I understand this."

Turning, he eyed the cell bars. Regular, harmless metal.

Laz learned quickly the incredible strength vampires possessed when Regis pried apart an opening wide enough for both of them to pass thru without such much as a grunt. He came back and gathered her into his arms, carrying her swiftly out and up the stairs. Out of the dungeons and into the courtyard of Castle Dun Tynne, the carnage that awaited outside was shocking.

Bodies lay everywhere.

Most were torn apart, lying amidst congealed blood, sparkling beneath the reflecting stars. A few gathered together, reaching their inevitable demises as a throng. Others were spread apart, facing away from the concentrated areas as they fled for their lives. Some were still alive, moaning softly, breathing their last as they moved past.

"What happened?" she looked back over his shoulder as they entered the main house and through the foyer.

"The Witcher, Dettlaff… and myself," he said.

The moment they mounted the landing, coming to the entrance of a small parlor at the top of the castle's keep, they both jerked with surprise.

Dettlaff had seized Rhenawedd by the neck, single-handedly pinning her to the wall. Her tall boots dangled, heeling the wall for purchase while Geralt tried his best to placate the situation.

* * *

Syanna choked and gasped, feeling the cold vise of her lover's hand wrapped so tightly around her neck, the blood was trapped in her head.

At the mouth of the parlor emerged two more; the whore from the dungeon and an elegantly dressed man resembling a tax collector. Like a bride, she was held up in his arms with her legs dangling off the side and her arms draped lovingly over his shoulders. Blood smeared his neck, leaving the proverbial markings even Syanna was familiar with.

First Dettlaff, now him. Who was next? The Witcher?

Syanna gritted her teeth, digging her nails into Dettlaff's wrist.

The grip around her next vanished, allowing her to plummet to the floor like a heap of garbage. The blood trapped her head whooshed in her ears and pounded against her temples.

 _Funny,_ she thought as she pulled herself back up to her feet, the room swaying unsteadily.  _I feel no difference between his bouts of love and his episodes of hatred. He is and will always be an animal, rough and untamed._

The fire's light from the hearth danced across the witcher's eyes, the pale blue orbs of Dettlaff's, off the cold regard colored agate-black, and the sand-and-sea glare of Laz. Everyone, including the one whom she thought loved her, now held nothing short of contempt. Syanna had known this look her entire life. It was this very look that brought her back to Toussaint.

"You will come to Tesham Mutna," Dettlaff finally spoke, flexing his claws down at his sides. "And explain all."

Neither witcher, tax collector, nor demon uttered a word. They stood by, like everyone else, and allowed her to be judged and scorned. Fitting.

When Dettlaff turned, she caught a glisten at the corner of his blue eyes. Emotive, wrought, and fleeting. She was losing control over her most powerful pawn. Had there not been such an audience, Syanna would have exploited the vampire's emotions wisely. Perhaps even return to his good graces. The witcher crossed his arms, scowling. The second man smelling of earth and herbs looked down at the woman his arms. They shared a look Syanna once shared with Dettlaff. It caused her stomach to turn with envy and disdain.

"If you do not," Dettlaff continued, his voice colder than before. "I will raze Beauclair to the ground. This a promise you. You have three days. I will be waiting."


	25. Sages, Soothsayers, & Sorceresses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regis and Lazarus return to Corvo Bianco.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS ADULT CONTENT!!!
> 
> It is also over 5.3k words.

They returned to Corvo Bianco despite her vehement behest that all of Lazarus' things remained at the Pheasantry, and most of all, that she wanted to see Ygritte and Imogen but Regis thoroughly refused. There was no offered explanation either.

Cleaned, dressed, and fed, she crawled beneath the covers and pretended she was anywhere but at the Witcher's estate. The blood that had painted the floor, walls, and bedsheets from her previous visit was washed away as if it'd never happened. It certainly felt more like a dream than a recent memory.

Regis drew the curtains closed then snuffed out a candle, throwing the guest bedroom into total darkness.

Silence followed like a heavy blanket. Laz strained her ears in vain.

How vampires came and went without so much as a creak in the floorboards was a mystery. The bedroom door eased open, betraying his location and intent. A slice of warm light from the lower level cut a wedge across the floor. Interestingly, there was no shadow stretching behind the vampire. 

"If you need anything," he said, "I will not be far."

Laz scowled like a defiant child.

"You're mad if you think I'm going to be able to sleep," she said, cringing as she straightened her legs.

"Am I?" He paused.

"You know I don't like the Witcher," she muttered candidly. "I don't want to be here. I'd rather be anywhere. Why not the cemetery? Or the inn? Hell, even Velen is a suitable destination if it removes me from this place."

Regis shut the door, and more silence followed then the bed dipped, and the smell of sage and thyme overcame her like a hypnotizing spell.

"Perhaps now is the best time to discuss this," the vampire muttered solemnly from the thick darkness.

Laz stiffened at the statement. What could have possibly gone wrong at the inn, much less the cemetery? Worry knotted her insides like coiling snakes in the silence. If she could only see his face and gauge his expression the apprehension wouldn't be so intense. For reasons beyond her, she prayed it wasn't about Dettlaff.

"There's been several transgressions since your rescue." Regis said, "Firstly, I didn't return you to the tavern because, to be put it frankly, everyone believes you are deceased. Even the ducal court is under the suspicion you've been killed, by a werewolf, which they are currently looking for."

"That's utter nonsense. I'm not dead." she laughed hoarsely, then deadpanned. "And I'm not a werewolf."

"I, too, was under the impression something horrible had happened to you," he continued. "That you'd been mauled by a beast, but I recalled crows blotting the sky one particular evening when you were in my arms… Do you remember hearing the screams?"

Laz suddenly remembered, too.

"So the visions were real," she whispered. "I thought all this time I was hallucinating from grief. The crows? Is that how you found me?"

"Ygritte is the one who found you. However, I have a special relationship with the corvids and asked if they spotted anything four-legged and white prowling the area. They delivered some troubling tidings that you had fled towards the Dun Tynne region. At the same time, Geralt had set out to slay the wolf.

"When Detlaff and I found him, he was already storming the keep. We hadn't a clue where you were. You know the rest."

She sat quietly in the thick silence contemplating over the news. Stupidity and recklessness all played a part that not only cost Laz's clandestine curse to be brought to the forefront but also placed Ygritte's life in jeopardy.

"He must have tracked me down then. Every time I think of him, there's a pressure building inside like a surmounting wave of panic. Typically triggers a change if I'm not careful."

"Do you feel it now?"

"Yes."

"Is Ygritte alright?" Laz changed the subject. "Did I hurt her?"

"You did not. Though she was a bit frightened; she'll recover. However, you did encounter a water hag along the banks."

"Ugh," Laz groaned. "Nasty."

Another moment of relief, then curiosity.

"I take it she's the one who alerted the ducal guards," she quickly surmised. "Of my apparent death, my horrible mauling."

"She was."

"Damnit."

Laz was afraid to ask, but the uncertainty was unbearable.

"What else? I know I'll cause more than just questions of necromancy if I walk outside, but there's something else. I can hear it in your voice."

He cleared his throat, then said with a sigh.

"As far as the duchy's concerned, you are the Beast of Beauclair. The duchy is unsure who to blame thusly your head, alongside an aforementioned vampire's, has been ordered on a pike."

Laz tried to swallow the small stone stuck in her throat. She thought of Keira and her lectures on protection and secrecy. Of the rabid commando elves lurking in the woods; the drunken Dwarves; the Black Ones and witch hunters. The humans versus nonhumans. A war was raging across the country, pitting the uncommon and common, the lame and strong between Redania and Nilfgaard. They would not spare her.

"Am I to be driven out of my home?" her voice trembled, "Where am I to go? Back to Velen?"

"There is another option, aside from remaining in hiding which, I presume, you have no intention of doing," said Regis.

Laz grimaced with apprehension but listened.

"The witcher can lift the curse, but not here. There's a keep in the far North. It possesses the necessary equip-"

"Don't do this, Regis." Laz felt the stone growing significantly.

"He can help you, Lazarus," Regis coaxed gently. "Geralt's seen these types of dilemmas before. Breaking curses, its part of his trade. You'll be safe in Kaer Morhen."

"What will you do?"

"Once Syanna comes to Tesham Mutna and explains herself to Dettlaff," he said after a moment's pause. "He wishes to leave. We cannot stay here in Toussaint, not after all that's happened. I can accompany you most of the way, but our paths shall eventually split."

"No," her response was supposed to remain only a thought, jumping out of her mouth prematurely instead, and there was no recanting it. She was hurt, scorned even and somewhat surprised by his intentions. Were her feelings too erratic for Regis? Were their interests not mutual, as she suspected? Had the visions ruined her chances? Perhaps her uncommonness was untoward for even a vampire. In short, Laz wanted him to stay, with her and her accursed ugliness.

"I can't leave this place," she spat, voice thick with emotion. "Do you know how far I've traveled? Do you have any idea how many places I've been? It's my home. I can't leave it. I can't. Keira is here-,"

The stone turned, cutting off her voice and flooding her eyes with a fresh wave of tears. She looked away.

"Perhaps you should speak to Geralt." Regis urged again. "He will know what to do."

"And what about Keira?" she hissed through the ache burning her throat and scratching her words.

"What of her?"

"Is it true? Did he kill her?"

Another pause, but it was enough to confirm her fears and suspicions like a nail in a coffin.

Regis rested his hand on the swell of her hip beneath the blanket. "I did not want to be the one to tell you, Lazarus. But within his own sound reason, he had to. It would be best if you and Geralt sat down and discussed this."

She grimaced and placed her head back down on the pillow in order to stifle the tears.

"Don't bottle it up, Laz. You deserve to know. Perhaps this will bring you closure."

"Not now, please. I'm too tired. I might," she bit her lip to stop the tremble. "When emotions overwhelm me…"

"I understand."

He stood, preparing to leave her alone with the bitter truth and the now looming, uncertain future. The furthest she'd ever been was Skellige and that was shortlived and far too cold.

"Regis?"

Her ears strained for a sound, a breath or sigh. Complete silence awaited her, but he was still there, listening. If she could only see him not just smell him.

"Stay with me, " her voice was small and pitiful. "Please."

"Let me help you," Regis said somberly. "There's so much conflict and confusion when I see you. You don't know what you are but want nothing more than to understand, however, you're too afraid to ask, to seek help. I want to help. Geralt wants to help, but you must trust him. Promise me you'll take some time to speak with him."

"Okay," she swallowed, unsure whether she was conceding or lying. "I promise."

He removed his boots, pulled back the covers, and slid next to her. The bed adjusted, jostling Laz's weary, broken figure. Her eyes shut and she clenched her teeth to staunch the pain.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked quickly, stilling himself. "Forgive me. Perhaps-?"

"It's okay," she grimaced, breathlessly, catching his arm before he could pull away. "Stay. Please, it's fine."

They lay in the quiet dark. Outside, the blushing dawn was now in full bloom. Birds flittered and sang. Servants and field hands worked the stalls and the cellar, cackling amongst themselves. A peacock cried. It would be a miracle if she fell asleep. With the sun coming up, her body in shambles, and beneath the witcher's roof no less, it was a concoction of discomfort and worry.

"Laz," Regis' rich tenor broke the silence. "Allow me."

"No," she blinked, nearly jerking away. "No more. I will recover on my own."

"Please," he said. "We both know it will help."

She thought of Dettlaff and the upheaval of emotions she felt thereafter. Was it different for every vampire? After drinking from Regis, she slept and felt nothing but fuzziness, but there were also visions. To prevent that, she needed to change and what happened during her shift was nothing short of reckless abandon. As far as the duchy was concerned, she was the Beast of Beauclair.

Laz gritted her teeth angrily. Her resolve was weakening by the second.

"I don't want to hurt you," she lied.

She did. She wanted to scratch him, sink her teeth into his veins, and feed on him aggressively, wildly.

The vampire laughed throatily, prompting her to turn and strain to see his smile.

"I am in no pain, I assure you," he whispered. "In fact, it's quite enjoyable."

 _These visions,_ she wanted to say. _I don't want to see anymore. I don't want to know._

"I can't, Regis."

"Very well. Should you change your mind, the offer still stands."

He tried to pull back and get more comfortable, but Laz clung tightly.

"Okay," she uttered tightly. "Okay, yes, I want to, but the visions, Regis. What if there's more?"

"This decision is entirely up to you."

He took her hand, luring her closer until their chest pressed together through her thin chemise. He placed her palm along the smooth plane of his neck, but it didn't remain there. The collar of his attire brushed her skin and she brushed it aside.

"Why are you still dressed?" she blurted.

"I thought...? Is that what you want?"

"Won't we get blood everywhere?"

Regis sat up and undressed down to his trousers, folding the discard clothes neatly and laying back down. Once more, he turned towards her. This time, Laz touched his neck. Too nervous to sit still, she caressed him tentatively, followed the ridge of his collarbone, up the chords of his throat, and ran her fingertips over his parted mouth. Her eyes were slowly adjusting, knitting together all of his pale features, inspiring the same admiration as when she first saw him.

Her belly stirred, curling her toes and quickening her heart. Under his black gaze, she wanted to squirm and writhe. All the self-confidence Keira had instilled into Lazarus had crumbled down the moment she met Regis. He was beyond her mentally, physically, emotionally. Her polar opposite.

"Why do you do this to me?" she said breathlessly.

"Forgive me, I do not intend to make you suffer."

He smiled again with sharp, pointed teeth. Such a visage should have spurred fright, but she found it charming and delightful. Laz licked her lips and rifled for something else to say, anything. But only two words danced in her head, over and over, like a mantra or a seance. She caved.

"Kiss me."

Regis dipped his head and Laz met him halfway in a tender kiss that quickly deepened. He gripped her thigh and gently dragged her closer until it draped over his hip. She tried to hide the grimace, but he knew.

"Please," he said against her mouth. He pulled away, only to immediately return to kiss her. She kissed him tightly, refusing to open her mouth for she knew. He touched her throat with his cool fingertips, brushed the white strands of hair from her face and kissed her again, encouraging her to relax her jaw and surrender. This time she obeyed. Behind his kiss, the blood flowed. Over her tongue, painting her lips. She licked a fang tip and shuddered pleasantly. Some blood trickled out, coloring a thin ribbon across her cheek and jawline tickling her. In spite of herself, she moaned and clutched the vampire tightly.

They held each other for what could have been an eternity, kissing sweetly, then fervidly, then aggressively. Regis gripped her sides and hissed as she pulled from the wound. The blood, as sweet as she remembered, went straight to the deepest parts of her belly where it bloomed and flourished. His hands came down to her hips, squeezing her and pulling her atop into a mount.

Laz straddled him, stretching across him and capturing his face into her hands. The firm grip around her flanks pushed and pulled, urging her hips to rock back and forth. She obliged, grinding against him until the room filled with gasps and groans. His claws were cutting into her thin chemise and scratching her flesh, but the pain only heightened into sharp pleasure. She liked it. The restoring blood knitted her back together quickly, like before. And like before, it wasn't enough for Laz and flooded her body hotly. She wanted all of Regis. His blood, his flesh, his bones. If his soul were a tangible entity, surely she would devour it.

Filled with fire and feral need, she licked the blood from her lips and sat back. A thin patch of gray and black hair covered a small portion of his pale sternum. With her eyes finally adjusted, she ran her fingers through it, then followed the thread of sinewy muscle like a tightly braided rope across his shallow navel. He was a marvelous sight. Laz leaned forward, meeting him in a kiss while her hand continued to slide down between them. He was too distracted by her tongue to notice her curiosity until she slipped her fingers past his waistband and seized his sex into her hand.

Regis hissed and jerked. His hips twitching beneath her.

He suddenly lifted up and removed her gently from his lap, then rose from the bed. A candle came to life, driving away the shadows and revealing the faint flecks of blood on the pillow and across Laz's chest. Her chemise was bunched around her waist, exposing her lower half shamelessly. The hot moisture between her legs throbbed, the air cooled her loins. She sat up and pulled a pillow into her lap while Regis put on his blouse. Had she done something wrong? Judging by his condition, she thought otherwise but she couldn't be certain.

"Where are you going?" Laz asked.

"Downstairs," he said, "I won't be long."

He wasn't. One moment he was a tangible man before her, the next an undulating mist, then a man again. He sat something small down onto the table. Just as he did, the air began to vibrate.

"Come."

Laz obeyed, sliding out of bed and moving carefully towards the table where she kept her eyes fixed on the device.

"What is that?" her voice was small again, cautious but curious. But as she got closer, the candle's dancing light refracted off of the Eye of Nehaleni's ornate surface. She rooted herself to the floor at the same time her stomach dropped.

"Come," Regis said again, holding out his hand. "I wish to see you."

First, anger reared an ugly head. Then, confusion. Regis was not one to mock and ridicule, this she was certain. No, he had been nothing short of kind, patient, and understanding. Laz opened her mouth the plead, but her tongue was stiff and dry. She didn't want to go back to the fury she felt staring at her newfound reflection, staring at a blatant lie.

"Lazarus," the vampire purred, reaching out for her with a pale hand tipped in claws. "If we are to break this curse we must understand it."

It was the most intimate and vulnerable she'd ever felt. She could have stood stark naked before him, and offered not much other than a blush and mild demure. But this was admitting to someone other than herself that she was cursed.

And that she wanted to be free.

Swallowing thickly, she forced herself to take a step. Reaching for his proffered hand, his fingers wrapped around her, pulling her into his lap. The blood from their kiss still stained their mouths, inspiring a bloom of desire for Laz. She touched his cheek to turn his face and kissed him again, deeply and unrelentingly, running her fingers through his short gray hair. If she kept him distracted, perhaps he would forget all about that accursed bauble.

But as they held each other, kissing softly and sweetly, he brought her hand up and placed it over the Eye. A chill coursed through her, like before. And not much else. No bright flashes of lightning, or bodily spasms. There was no ruthless gale battered the shutters and trellis'. She did not howl like a demon or turn rabid and throw herself at across the room.

Laz stiffened, then broke the kiss. She was too afraid to move, or open her eyes, or make a sound. The candlelight whooshed softly. The birds outside sang and churred. A peacock cried.

"Look at me," he said softly.

Like an old machine, Laz turned her head mechanically, eyes wide with fear and uncertainty, but most of all, insecurity and the fear of rejection. It was a hard stone to swallow now that she knew what she was to embrace wholly. This was not what Keira had prepared her for, but it was the fate she was dealt.

Shadows danced across his gaunt features, a glint of gold in a pool of inky black. A vampire. Fangs and claws. Her heart wrenched and fluttered. His black eyes roses, taking in the horns, her matching stare, heaving chest. They couldn't be more different.

He was so...human despite that he was far from it.

And she was so…

Cursed and confused.

Insecurity reared its ugly head again. A twitch caught his attention near the floor. He looked down, watching her bald tail swish and flick like lazy barn cat's. He smiled, not faintly but fully, displaying his impressive fangs and charming grin. Then he slid his hands up the smooth flesh of her thighs, brushed over her knee, and caressed her calf.

"Not a succubus," he whispered.

Laz furrowed her brow.

"How do you know?"

"I..," he paused, "Courted a succubus quite some time ago."

"Oh?" She perked her brows, surprised and stinging with a modicum of jealousy. "How was that? Wait. Don't tell me. I don't want to know."

His smile caused her heart to swoon. She turned in his lap, throwing her legs over to straddle him once more. Gathering the hem of her chemise, she peeled it away and tossed it aside. Regis ran his palms up her thighs again, over the gentle bloom of her hips, and across her tapering flank. He stopped his perusing just beneath her breast and looked up at her.

Laz was on fire and had much difficulty sitting still. Every movement of his exercised grace and economy, wisdom, and tortuous patience. The longer she was with him, the starker their demeanors proved. Laz was a feral and ravenous as the Lycan curse that claimed her. Regis was...He was...

He cupped her breasts, kneading them gently and scattering every thought from Laz's mind. He then drifted, paying wise attention to each taut nipple until she feared her heart was going to break out of her ribcage. Pulling her closer, his head dipped, taking a pert nipple into his mouth and suckling gently. The air cooled and prickled the skin where he lapped and nipped. Laz squirmed, dropping her head back against her shoulders in surrender to both the vampire and the weight of her horns. Her tail, as awful as it was, wrapped around his leg for balance. Regis didn't seem to mind. His lips found her neck, her collarbone then latched onto a nipple and suckled again until Laz panted so heavily, the room spun and her face tingled.

Reaching between, Regis ripped the fabric of his undergarments in a careful swipe, freeing himself. He gripped her hips and pulled her close.

Turning back to the task at hand, she found Regis staring at her.

She paused. Very little separated them and it made her nervous. Still, she wanted as much of him as he could offer. Blood, flesh, bone. She stood up carefully to keep from falling over, slid off her panties, and crawled back into his naked lap.

It took everything not to look down. She was too afraid but horribly curious.

A vampire! She felt giddy and scared. The throb between her legs felt more like a war drum than a pulse.

"You must do the rest," she muttered softly, and rather bashfully. He wrapped an arm around her waist and lifted her, with the other, he reached between them and guided his tip. Slowly, she sank, surprised to find her body had done as much as it could to accommodate him if that was at all possible. She was wet and swollen, but there was much resistance. At first, it appeared hen something gave, and she sank down onto his lap with a startled gasp. There was a sharp pain and no room to move.

They both stiffened. Regis gripped her hips firmly, lowering his head to catch his breath. Laz couldn't breathe either. There was no room for it. He'd felt thick and heavy in her hand, certainly, but pushing him inside of her brought a variety of other questions and concerns. Like, how could she move if she was stuck on a pike?

Regis lured her into another kiss sweetened with blood. The sharp pain dwindled, then diminished entirely. Instinct took over and she found herself wanting to roll her hips. It felt good. Immediately. Too good, in fact. With his hands digging into her rump and her own nails clawing his shoulders, she worked her hips against him with slow confidence. Taking him deeply, then withdrawing. Again, she arched her back and tilted her hips, writhing against him. The brush of his thighs against her, his hands holding her firmly, and being buried so deeply inside, Laz wanted the moment to stretch on.

Regis leaned forward, guiding her legs to hug his waist then he wrapped his arms around her back and stood. They returned to the bed. Regis: stark naked, utterly pale, and glowing in a study of warm shade and shadow-play.

He spread her legs, nestling in between them and caressed her face and neck sweetly and slowly. Tracing the landmarks of her ribs, the shadow of her navel, the swell of her hips that rose and fell on their own, his hands explored. The curve of each supple breast and the frenetic heart beneath her sternum. He took her tail and stroked the length of it like he would a cat. A heat flourished between her legs from it. If only she could purr.

Finally, he came down onto his elbows to cover her with his body and drove his hips forward, slowly penetrating her. The initial pain she'd felt was gone, replaced by a wonderfully suffocating intimacy. Laz stroked his face, carded her fingers through his hair, and caressed his back. They could not stop kissing. He was warm, then hot. He was hers. She was his. Each thrust of his hips, he made a sound louder than the previous.

A familiar ache began to build inside Laz. Her insides were tightening and clenching. Winding up, unraveling and coiling again tighter than before. Regis felt it too, finding it more difficult to control the gentle drive of his hips. He fell into a quickening rhythm which only drove Laz closer and closer to the mystery lurking beyond the horizon. She was losing focus in a fog. All of her senses remained on Regis and Regis only.

The bed rocked. The room gathered a soft melody of gentle gasps and whispers of caressing flesh. Limbs entangled. Bloodstained. Fangs extended. The candle flickered and burned brighter, fueled by the intimacy. Reaching up, she cupped his face and pulled him down into another deep kiss. Regis tilted his hips in such a way, he struck something with the tip of his sex that shot straight through her gut. Laz cried out, clutching his buttocks and imploring him to drive deeper. She held on, wrapping her legs around his waist to keep from sinking into oblivion. Regis, trembling over her, slammed into Laz again and again determinedly. No longer sweetly, or gently, or slowly.

Building, building, building. They climbed the summit together like animals.

She howled. He hissed. She tried to hold on to the pleasure undulating within, but failed.

It struck her like a gale. White, black, then red swallowed her eyesight. Her heart skipped then thundered. She made a peculiar noise, digging her nails into his skin while her inner walls flexed and gripped the vampire from within. Regis pushed in as deeply as permissible and released with a sharp grunt, filling her with warmth as he trembled and sighed.

They slept until the sun fell and the shadows thickened until the birds finished their song and the crickets brought their own chorus, waking only to make love and share a bit of pillow talk. Oddly, the visions made no appearance and Laz wondered upon her waking moments what had been done differently. Albeit, she had an idea.

Sleeping with horns proved not as difficult as she suspected either. They were short enough and did not curl far back into an impeding length. However, no matter how she twisted her hips, no comforting spot could be found when it came to her tail. Regis chuckled often, pulling her into the crook of his arm so that her head rested on his shoulder and their chest met, freeing her tail to swish lazily and autonomically.

"You are much like a crow," Laz whispered. "Dark and elegant. I see why you like them."

"Any visions?" the vampire's voice was deepened with post-coital languor as he absentmindedly caressed her back with the tip of his claws. His eyes were shut and an expression of utter contentment softened his features.

"None. I wonder what we did differently." Laz sank into the sensation of his nails drifted to and fro. A new burn simmered in her veins. His blood stirred her loins once more.

"I have a few ideas," he chuckled, a grin playing on his lips.

"I'm sure you do," Laz smiled without opening her eyes, "So far though, they've all come true. My horrible mauling which led to my inevitable discovery, the witcher trying to cut me down. This." she glided her hand across his naked chest.

"Indeed they have. Perhaps you have an elven ancestor, a Sage at that. They can see into the past and the future."

"No," she murmured after a thought. "That seems too easy, don't you think? A She-Elf. Keira would have never taken me in. As for being a soothsayer, I feel she would have no reason to withhold such information. She views them as bottom feeders if they're not sorceresses."

"Mmm," Regis continued to trace her backside, gooseflesh prickling her skin as he did.

Laz turned, pressing her breasts into his side then hiking a leg, sliding her knee between his pale thighs and parting them. "Can I tell you something?"

He watched her creep like a cat into his lap, his member twitching responsively, "Of course."

"I think I know why there were no visions."

"Pray tell."

He groaned low in his throat as her mouth captured his. Pressing herself against him, she straddled his hips and lowered herself partially. Something brushed her inner thigh several times. Her tail swept languidly across his legs.

"It wasn't enough," she whispered before kissing him deeply again. She reached down between them and touched herself. Her feminine folds were hot and slick with her own arousal. She brushed her knuckles across Regis' lap, testing to see how warm or hot his waters were. They were scorching.

Laz felt confident enough to take control.

"If it's more you desire," he closed his eyes with a hiss and gripped her side as she pushed him inside her. "I will have to rest at some point."

Her head tilted back, eyes closed while her body yielded to him. He felt good inside, filling her utterly, and completely. She rocked her hips slowly, taking the entire length of him.

"I have a remedy for that," she breathed, planting her hands on to his pale chest for support while she rode him.

"Pray tell," he said tightly.

Laz thought more and more of his statement regarding the past and the future. The visions certainly portrayed the future. Somehow, through the blood they shared, she could see and so could Regis. Albeit, it was a hit or miss, perhaps she could see into the past-her past- if she focused hard enough, and if he allowed her ample amount of blood, where it seemed all the divination arcana dwelled.

Laz lowered herself until she lay upon him with her elbows on either side of his head, chests pressing. Regis' hips rose and fell, continuing their activity. She widened her legs, allowing easier access and deeper penetration. She was losing focus now while the room grew hot and Regis delved deeper.

She groaned, closing her eyes and struggling to concentrate beyond their lovemaking. So far, both vampires knew their way around a woman, whereas Laz barely knew her way around a pair of horns and a tail.

Sage, soothsayer, or sorceress, the answers lay in the blood of vampires and her own. It was worth a shot and certainly enjoyable by all means.

Laz sat up, luring Regis upright with her. He adjusted his thighs allowing her to sink lower into his lap while he wrapped his arms around her. Moisture pooled between her legs, painting their thighs and filling them both with an insatiable aching desire. At this rate, they were going to spend more time in the bedroom than not.

Draping one arm across his shoulders, Laz swept her hair to one side and turned her head. She cupped the back of his neck and whispered,

"Drink."


	26. Catastrophic Consquence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Though a man can bend rods of steel. Women will always bring him to heel."- Yarpen Zigrin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter contains more explicit sexual content/bloodplay

There was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, Laz noticed but remained undeterred. She began to massage the back of his neck lovingly, mirroring the same incentive Keira performed when the philters or other elixirs tasted too foul and left her with pinched lips.

The vampire swallowed thickly, the notch in his throat dipped and rose.

When he opened his mouth to reply, Laz knew it wasn't what she wanted to hear and she was so tired of bad news. She rolled her hips, distracting him with the heat and wetness of her sex. It worked, his words cut short and his breath hitched, eliciting a throaty moan.

"We must try," she whispered, kissing him softly, lapping his tongue.

"What if there are answers hidden within the visions?" she nipped his bottom lip, "Perhaps there's even access to the past.  _My_ past."

He said nothing, and his expression lacked any conviction, leaving a window of opportunity she quickly seized. If Laz was to get her way, she needed sound like Regis. Noble, compassionate, and in control.

"I thought you wanted to help me," she said coyly, sounding more and more like Keira instead. She rolled her hips again, sheathing him whole until there was no discerning when she began and he ended. His hands continuously explored the subtle curves and swell of her figure, as if committing every detail to memory.

"It doesn't hurt to try," she threaded her fingers through the silver hair around his temples. "And if we find nothing, I won't ask again. I will never ask again. I'll turn to the witcher's aid."

Regis considered this, reading her matching eyes intently. Dettlaff had no qualms sinking his teeth into her groin, but of course, the gentler, more charming vampire was pragmatic and harder to crack. For reasons beyond her, she wanted him to bite her. To skin his fangs so deep, Laz could let go of everything. All the complicated emotions, the uncertainties, and grief locked inside her chest.

"The Witcher is right," he carded his fingers through her hair all the way down to the ends. "You are a bad influence."

He reached up, grasped a horn, and forced her to crane her neck to the side. Laz stiffened, expecting the sharp pricks of his fangs instead, he placed a gentle kiss against her pulse. Awash with the scent of sage and cinnamon, connected intimately, and pressed so close to Regis, Laz felt a ravenous need and struggled to contain her excitement and lust. The vampire trembled beneath her, painting her collarbone, shoulder, and neck with delicate brushes of his mouth.

"It's okay," she assured him, fighting off the brief swell of unease when a brief glimpse of Dettlaff crossed her mind.  _This_ was not the same. She wanted this. That…. That was in the past. He had Rhenawedd, or Syanna, whatever moniker she utilized currently. Laz took him by the wrist and guided his hand over her breast. He squeezed it, kneaded it and played with the nipple, continuously worshiping her neck and shoulders. Her hips started their slow writhe once more. Regis nipped the sensitive flesh gently, brushing her neck with his shallow breathing. He nipped her again, pushing his boundaries and his steadfast principles. Her body responded eagerly, stirring the pit of her belly and prickling her skin with gooseflesh.

At the same time, Regis pulled her closer.

He breathed in, pausing.

Then sank his fangs into her flesh.

Laz tried to cry out, but the mixture of pain and pleasure locked the air in her lungs. A scream stuck in the pit of her throat, not of fear, but of utter, unfathomably debilitating ecstasy. She came and came, and came again. Hard. Laz was hot metal being forged into a sharp blade, Regis was the blows of an unrelenting hammer. His fangs, his claws, his sex all wrought her into a weapon. She savagely ground against the vampire with newfound vigor, wrapped her legs around his waist and gripped the back of his neck, firmly holding him in place. The blood gushed into his mouth alarmingly fast, spilled past the corner of his lips and trickled down her breast. Regis anchored one around her waist; the other clutched a handful of hair to keep her from climbing up his body. Her ears burned, her chest flushed hotly, sweat and blood smeared her bosom.

"Yes!" she panted, gasping for air. "Yes!"

He freed his fangs expertly and licked the crimson trail escaping quickly down her chest. She arched into his wet tongue, begging urgently without words, clearly indicating what she wanted him to do next. He bit her again, latching onto the soft mount of her breast and pulling from the wound with reckless abandon. The pleasure shot through her like a searing arrow for the second time. The pocket of noise caught in her throat freed with a yelp riven by breathy laughter.

She was lightheaded, euphoric. Her vision swam like a drunk.

With his fangs embedded in her breast, his cock massaging into her core, Laz came in and out both in waves of rapture and consciousness. Her fingers, which were tangled in his gray hair, relaxed. Satiated fatigue swirling with euphoria settled in her arms, legs, and the deepest parts of her belly. The rhythm of their writhing bodies eased but did not stop. Regis freed his fangs a second time, breathing heavily and licking the crimson mess from his mouth. He laid her down on her back, spread her legs and drove into her slowly, stroking himself within her depth until he, too, shattered and spent.

Laz wrapped her legs around his waist, refusing him withdrawal. Not minding the least, Regis remained, lowering himself to kiss her gently, too tired and exhausted for anything else.

For some time, they could only kiss and hold each other while their bodies recovered. For her first time with a vampire, much less a man, Laz never anticipated how wonderful it was to have one in her arms, or the amount of elation she would endure all the while, something Keira failed to mention. Much like she never mentioned a majority of information.

Around the lovers, the bed was in shambles. The pillows were torn and gutted from sharp claws; the sheets stained red and tangled amidst their limbs.

Regis used a fang to cut open his lip, allowing Laz to kiss and suckle him gently. The vein was engorged from their shared heat and fervid activity, flowing in a richly sweet outpour. Perhaps he'd cut open the underside of his tongue for she had difficulty drinking it faster than it flooded her mouth. As a result, their heavy petting turned messy and grotesque, painting both the vampire's mouth, as well as much of Laz's face and chest in slick gore.

 _Oh, Regis…_ she thought, lost in the passion of their sweet kiss and the sensation of him pressed against her, holding her.  _I could have never wanted something more. Never._

Instead of thinking of a way to access her memories, she fawned incessantly. Regis was all she could think of and all she could feel.

Something skirted across her eyes, too fast and blurry to obtain much detail but enough to startle her. Laz broke the kiss and leaned back enough to see his face, blinking.

"What was that?" she asked. The room, though dark, was empty sans the vampire and herself. But she saw something, this was certain. Or perhaps she  _thought_ she saw something. Even still, her vision had yet to correct itself.

Regis knitted his brow. "Did I cut you with my teeth?"

"No-"

Then a swarm of images crashed into her. It came with such force, it blotted her eyes like a concussion, plunging her into the depths far off places and unknown people. Her eyes rolled back into her skull and her figure stiffened.

_A glimpse atop of a hill, below a war raged. Black banners with golden suns fluttered over mounts charging down a grassy, shallow knoll. On the opposing side, blue and white Temerian pennants depicting white lilies whipped over glistening armor. The battled merged, steel clashes, horses reared and squealed. Blood shed. A thousand throats roared._

The images whipped around her like a furious storm.

_A quiet cemetery and a murmuring motley group narrowing in. The Witcher Geralt, much different than he was currently, peered over from behind a tombstone. Dwarves flanked his sides, a pair of peasant women with contemptuous glares, and an elaborately colored gentleman with a mustache and cornflower blue eyes held a lute._

The visions gyred violently.

_Beauclair palace denoted by the ornate arches and Elven architect glistened from firelight. She held a woman in her arms. A woman with horns, a beautiful face, and legs like a goat. Laz's stomach twisted with shock and jealousy._

The maelstrom morphed.

_A menacing castle built into the craggy rock face. Laz had never seen any of these places before but knew by merely looking at it; it was clear the castle hummed with magic. Inside, over a balustrade, archers launched a flurry of arrows across the space where the witcher, two women, and a knight fought for their lives from the opposing side._

It switched again.

To keep up with the shifting images and scenes was a feat, to comprehend the events and locations was unfathomable. Laz recognized only one face, the witcher's, who was younger and freshly shaven with longer hair, much like the bust portrait drawn by Keira she found not long ago.

It switched again, placing her in a laboratory with flasks, retorts, and test tubes.

_"There are occasions," a voice like Regis' came matter-of-factly after releasing a victim laying across his lap, a crimson wound pumped precious blood in fatal gushes, "When it's simply impossible not to have a drink."_

_Regis!_ She tried to scream, but like any terrible nightmare, her lungs could not propel air, her voice could not conjure sound. She screamed silently and in vain.

_The memories continued._

_Not hers, no-Regis'._

_Unrelentlessly they scoured across her mind thick and red with blood, a chorus of discussions and shouts, and thunderous wars watched from afar. From humility to horrible bloodshed, she watched, stunned and awed._

_The memories continued._

_And ended with a nobly dressed man, a handsome sorcerer if not for the hideous disfiguring scar around one significantly and unnaturally smaller eye._

_They continued..._

* * *

Another sudden storm blew in, soughing the trees with its fierce gale, and loosening a flurry of leaves from their boughs. Silver puddles were reflecting the gloom sky littered across the witcher's estate. The temperature had dropped significantly and pleasantly, coming through the estate's open front door to circulate the stifling air smell of sweat, sex, and peaches.

Regis sat at the bottom floor dining table, watching the glowering witcher traipse through the mud and falling rain. As indicative to the witcher's limited register of expression, he was fierce and inscrutable, silently marching until he ducked under the dripping entrance into the house and out of the rain.

"Good evening, Regis." Geralt shook off the rain from his gambeson and unbuckled the straps of his scabbards to hang aside.

"Greetings, Geralt."

"How is she doing?"

"Still sleeping," the vampire said and then with hesitation, "We…  _experimented._ Nonetheless, you should know she's either incapacitated or obtained a new ability: oneiromancy."

Geralt furrowed his brow. "You say it with such blasé. Shouldn't you be worried?"

"Initially, yes. I was utterly confused and for a brief moment, even panicked. We were kissing, then suddenly she seized up in my arms," Regis shook his head. "But alas, there's no mystery to what's happening; Remarkably, I can actually see what she's dreaming as if she's allowing me."

"Such as?"

"Us. You and I. Everyone. How we met. Our journey, our purpose. The triumphs, the tragedies. For, after all, she is dreaming my most profound memories. Much like a very potent dose of Resonance." Regis paused, smiling fondly and looking into the unseen. "Ahh, I'll have to explain that one thoroughly, lest she burns with jealousy."

"Oneiromancer." the witcher muttered. "Hmmm, a unique talent. I didn't suspect her to be from the academy."

"Your professional expertise, once more, has been challenged by the greater unknown," the vampire quipped.

"Don't be too quick to riposte, Regis. I was being sarcastic." Geralt glanced back to stare at the storm. "I do happen to have an idea."

The barber-surgeon slid his black eyes over the witcher's shoulder, looking out from the open the door to the smoldering overcast just as a gale howled mournfully, listing and soughing the treetops. He looked back to the witcher who took a seat nearest the vampire's end.

"Both occasions she's been here, a storm has blown in. Have you noticed?" the witcher asked.

"I have. A matter of coincidence?"

"It's not, Regis," Geralt said flatly. "Only one thing can conjure storms like this."

"Very well, so if she is the cause of pressure changes and temperature drops, what does that make her? A wizard? A prophetess of weather?" The vampire smirked dropped when he saw the witcher's deadpanning expression.

"Storms like these are not a natural phenomenon. It's caused by something more than  _pressure changes_ or a  _drop in temperature_. See how the lightning flashes longer like a fraction of a second? That doesn't seem odd to you? Look at the overcast, Regis, how its darkest directly above Corvo Bianco and nowhere else. The first time I saw a storm like this I was in Rinde and the city was being battered to hell."

"I've never heard this story."

Geralt sighed, impatient. "It was the first time I met Yennefer. We didn't get along right away-"

"You still don't."

"No interrupting, Regis. The fact of the matter is, Dandelion and I found something when we went fishing, and it wasn't trout. It was a Djinn; specifically an Air genie."

Regis tilted his head, listening while considering his response. For once, the vampire had nothing to say. This was out of his element of expertise and also hadn't a clue where Geralt was going with this vein of discussion.

"Go on, witcher," he urged, piqued.

"Yennefer captured Dandelion and lured the djinn, binding it with a magical spell so she could use it for herself, as a Source." Geralt went on. "As they battled, a storm came, conjured by the djinn trying its damnedest to break free. It couldn't leave. Not until I revealed the last wish, not until the person responsible for its slavery freed it."

A heavy silence followed, encompassing the room like a thick overcast. The vampire stared at the golden reflection dancing in Geralt's cat-like eyes, to the shadows casting a sharp relief over his pale face.

"What are you saying, witcher?"

"I'm saying she's a djinn, Regis. An earth djinn to be exact, a D'ao. Capable of sheer chaos and catastrophic consequence."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A djinn!  
> So once again, little was offered regarding the books about Djinns, so I had to refer to already existing lore, (because how else did the Witcher author come up with that stuff?) and found quite a wealth of info. There are many different types of djinn, obviously, but what was mentioned in the books are the elements. So I did some research on the earth djinn and found there's a multitude of them, as well. *SIGH* In short, some drink blood, while all are capable of polymorphy. Some live out regular lives, marrying, having children and even dying. Other's are immortal. All are incredibly powerful. I read about a 'sila', a female earth genie, being more tolerant of humans and other species other than djinns. She also had horns and a tail (hence why I gave Laz horns and a tail) and is often dubbed as a "good fairy." There's even a "ghoul" djinn, which behaves much like a Witcher ghoul, but uhhh...gross and no thanks. I took a little bit from everywhere because technically they were -all- D'ao djinns while also keeping close to the books.
> 
> Anywho, the story is almost to a close.
> 
> Thank you for the bookmarks, the subs, the kudos and the wonderful comments thus far. I hope the time we spent together was enjoyable and worthy.  
> THIS IS NOT THE LAST CHAPTER!!


	27. A Voice of Reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt agrees to free Laz from her accursed lycanthropy but under certain, unfavorable conditions. Regis must make a difficult decision.

_"...creatures known as genies. There are four types, each corresponding to one of the four Elements which comprise their respective essence. Each type of genie also counts it antithesis among the others. Thus, the marides, aligned with the Element of Water are opposed by the fiery ifrits. The Plane of Earth is inhabited by the d'ao genies, and the Dimension of Air which opposes it is home for d'jinni―whose name, incidentally, is the root of the word genie. The last term is often used by simple folk to refer to all creatures that inhabit the Elemental Planes, which is an obvious blunder._

_Unusually powerful sorcerers can sometimes bind such beings and bend them to their will, thus acquiring tremendous might to the point of near omnipotence. For a genie, being the living personification of an Element's energies is akin to an almost boundless reservoir of Power. Thus, its master can draw energy from the genie for spell casting, without the tiresome need to channel from traditional sources. However, those who are able to bind a genie are few and far between, for the strength of the inhabits of the four Planes is matched only by the cunning which they employ to avoid such a fate."_

_―Elemental Empires_

* * *

Corvo Bianco wept.

Another flash of lightning lit up vineyard brilliantly, blinding the residence for several seconds before plunging it into darkness. Overheard the slate overcast churned like a seething cauldron. A howling wind brought the rain in quick successive waves, sweeping across the estate. Narrow streams cut through the mud and rock, digging furrows.

In a nearby stall, dry and safe from the storm, Roach flicked her tail and idly grazed. Several fowl skirted around her robust legs, scratching and pecking the floor.

Regis, warm and fuzzy from his recent drinking, sat contently at his end of the table while observing the witcher next to him. The foremost occupation of his mind was her. For Laz being an infinite Source of Power, the vampire wondered, why she dealt with her lycanthropy affliction at all.

"It's a curse, Regis." the witcher said firmly, reading the vampire's pensive expression. "One that exploits weakness and every living entity has a weakness, even djinn. Keira knew exactly what she was doing when she cast the spell. Djinn are polymorphic with everything except the wolf. Every time Laz changed, she reinstated the curse, fortified it even. Who knows how many times she invoked it or how strong it is so far? Typically those suffering from lycanthropy also suffer from amnesia. Keira either kept the truth from her, or the curse negates any ability to recall her times under the spell."

 _Ahh, there's more behind the curtain it seems_. Regis thought to himself.  _What would be found if we drew back the tapestry? What horrors and macabre would reveal themselves? A murderess enslaved?_

_But who am I to assign judgment and fault?_

Geralt was growing weary by the thought. First Dettlaff, then Syanna, and now this. It was fortunate he now had a roof over his head, a chef to cook meals, and a majordomo to clean and maintain the estate. Before, dealing with monsters devoid of thought and cleverness looked rather easy even if he was low of coin. No one was falling in love, exploiting emotions, or persuading dear friends to relapse behind his back. It was politics all over again concealed behind tactful romance.

"D'ao," the vampire tasted the word. Much like her blood, it left him wanting to know more, kept him coming back. He'd seen many beings unlike his own, all fascinating within their realm of uniqueness and quality. But how did a djinn compare to a succubus? A dwarf or elf? Or any other sentient being?

"It was a difficult diagnosis, to begin with." Geralt continued. "Djinns essentially conceal themselves, hide from detection and are hard to track down, leaving almost no trace and only revealing themselves when they want to. Blood, as it appears, loosens the binds that contain her. Which is why she craves the taste of yours, because, in a way, it's liberating but only to an extent."

A sudden intensive crack of thunder rent the sky and rumbled the earth beneath their feet. The candles flickered, and the shadows around them danced.

"As proverbial relations go between mages and enslaved djinns, Keira wanted power, an infinite wealth of it, while slowly obtaining control and servitude over the girl. What better way to ensure loyalty than through lycanthropy? They say dogs are man's best friend. As we know, amnesia is an issue while the curse has caused her emotions to be undeveloped and immature.

"I'm under the impression the witch raised her," Regis said thoughtfully. "It didn't appear to me she was found in her respective elemental plane, and then removed. Is this Keira capable of such feat?"

"Unless captured, they can move about freely within their Plane, jumping from portal to portal in a blink of an eye." Geralt explained. " And no, Laz must have been in the wrong place, at the wrong time when Keira found her. If she has the seal...it's just a matter of finding it.

"A witcher's work is never done," the vampire smiled. "What will the seal do for us?"

"Nothing without a sorceress. I can't ask Yennefer, not after Rinde. I could ask Triss. I need to head to Velen first. Maybe something will point me in the right direction. If not, Triss will have to bring Keira back from the dead, if she even agrees to help."

"Are you suggesting Necromancy?" Regis looked incredulous. "That degree of dark arcana would not only attract every monster within the region but even hellish entities from unknown and lesser amicable realms.  _Demons_ , witcher."

"I know." Geralt sighed, resting his elbows on the table. "And I'm not suggesting it, I'm merely providing two methods." he paused. " _Okay, I am suggesting it._  If I'm unable to find the seal, then yes, we will reduce our efforts to necromancy." He just wanted to get rid of the djinn as quickly as possible, lest others catch wind of her ilk and use her for nefarious purposes. It was one thing hunting a higher vampire, even if he had Regis' help. It was something else dealing with an entity that could turn his insides out by pure thought.

"If you wish to find Keira's remains, you will not have to look far," the vampire said. "She's here, in Toussaint."

Geralt gave him a look that said  _How the hell do you know?_

"The ferocious djinn told me," Regis replied. "When I asked her to leave for Kaer Morhen, she said, 'I can't. Keira is here.' Intriguing, wouldn't you say? With all her undeveloped emotions and immature faculties, one would assume she cared nothing about her foster mother or wouldn't think to."

"So she's buried here," the witcher ignored the sarcasm. "Mind asking her where?"

"I fear you are over inflating this entire process, Geralt."

The witcher paused, scowling. No, Geralt wasn't over exaggerating. He was trying to expedite the process. The sooner Laz was gone, the better it was for Regis and many, many others. Another sorcerer or a druid with a djinn at their disposal meant earthquakes, tidal waves, or worse. Mt. Gorgon's foothills cradled Beauclair, and the volcanic fallout alone could blanket all of Toussaint in ash. Night would claim the duchy and with that meant creatures normally nocturnal would run rampant at all hours. The thought alone suddenly made him tired.

"Her ignorance is what's keeping us alive," he said gravely. "The second she discovers who she is, she'll level Beauclair with the snap of her fingers simply because she can. Djinn― _no matter the element_ ―are malevolent."

"She will do no such thing," the vampire stated bluntly, pinning the witcher with his gaze. "Yes, I admit she is not fond of you and has left you with a poor impression. Need I remind you,  _witcher_ , of your mistrust and ill ease upon our introduction. Need I also remind you that you slew her foster mother. Granted, she was the key and the culprit of Laz's capture, but mother nonetheless. You see―neither Laz or you have made the efforts to convene and overcome the prejudice that ails your character. As I told her and shall now tell you, you need to speak with her and dispel these animosities. Perhaps you can teach her what a witcher truly is and perhaps she can assuage any suspicions that of djinns."

"A djinn to a higher vampire are two different things. Stop looking at me like that, dammit. I'm concerned. Did she trek across the other end of the world to save someone she's never met? Did she grasp hot iron to prove a lame woman's innocence, among many, many other sacrifices? No. If you thought Vilgefortz was powerful, multiply him infinitely, and you have yourself a D'ao, a dormant one who, upon waking, will devastate Beauclair and everyone within it. A mage once possessed the services of an earth genie who then moved a mountain simply because it blocked the view from their master's tower. She is a threat and should be returned to her Plane. Remaining here only increases the risk of her wreaking havoc or being discovered."

"I disagree."

"She will be safe in Kaer Morhen."

"She will be safe  _with me."_

"Is one death not enough for you?" Geralt growled. Suddenly he was back at Castle Stygga high in the tower watching the vampire being torn in half by a white, roaring flame. It channeled a great deal of grief and regret that left his chest tight and breath shallow. "What of Milva? Cahir? Angouleme? Dettlaff? What will they think? _Need I_   _remind_  you of how we gathered around a fire, and you explained the reason for your principles? They're gone, Regis. All of them, claimed at Stygga, buried at the foot of the castle. Next to you."

Regis stiffened and fell quiet. By the time Geralt had reached Ciri at the sorcerer's hideout, he had lost everyone. They fell one by one in the wolf's wake, paying with their lives to bring Ciri and Yennefer home. The witcher's chest was still tight.

"I can see what's happening." Geralt said gently, regretting his harshness. "For just a moment, forget I'm a witcher and monster killer. For a moment, I am just your friend. That's it. Just a friend."

Resigned, the vampire looked up, still silent.

"She's using you, Regis. Like Syanna used Dettlaff. Laz is using you for blood, hiding it behind sex and attraction because it benefits her. Just like Keira. And―just like Keira―when you are no longer of any use, she'll get rid of you. And she can, Regis. I'll say it again; she can do more than what Vilgefortz did."

The vampire lowered his eyes again, respiring heavily.

"You have her all wrong, witcher," he said. "She's many things, but she is not a murderer and certainly not malevolent."

"You're too kind and forgiving, Regis. You don't know monsters as I do."

The vampire, smelling like sage, aniseed, and peach mead rolled his shoulders and straightened up, lifting his aquiline nose proudly with a tilt of his chin.

"Very well," he said. "I can also see what's happening. We've reached a crossroad of bitter decision, haven't we? For you wish for me to resign my feelings or you won't remove the curse. Am I warm, witcher?"

 _Yes,_  thought the witcher,  _You are right, dear vampire. I will only free Laz if I can protect you._

A muscle in Geralt's jaw ticked, but before he could reply, the vampire continued.

"I'm afraid I have not been entirely honest with you either. Perhaps I should enlighten the reason for my reluctance to part with our darling djinn."

Geralt sat back in his chair with a creak and crossed his arms firmly and impatiently.

The barber-surgeon cleared his throat, speaking with resolve and eloquence.

"The binds are tied," he began solemnly. "Eternally, might I add. She and I shared our blood amidst consummation and without restraint. In short, we are mated, as per my codex."

Gerald shook his head. "Since when?"

"The night you came back to ask for my services at Corvo Bianco. Laz needed blood, and you knew where to find it."

" _You tell me this now...?_ "

"You wished for me to perform my duties as a barber-surgeon," Regis said matter-of-factly. "And I did. But the amount it resulted is something I cannot undo nor would I ever want to. Granted, before yesterday I was the only one afflicted, but now..." he looked off to the side, reflecting quietly and fondly.

The witcher spat.

"She's already in your head, dammit. Was this your plan all along, Regis? To be stuck with her without even understanding who or what she is? Or was this another of your humane intervention, an attempt to protect her from what? Me?"

"Not at all. However, the result is the same."

Geralt wiped a hand down his rugged face, swearing coarsely.

"A djinn, Regis. She is a djinn. Are you even listening to me?"

"Not every woman is a crotchety spellcaster. A man and a woman are more than capable of getting along with one another. This notion can apply itself to vampire and a djinn most certainly. Shall I write a book on how to appease the fairer sex without sacrificing one's volition entirely?"

"Don't make this about me," the witcher retorted. "I'm trying to be the voice of reason."

Regis ran his claws through his gray hair. A heavy silence enveloped the two men. Beneath the seething storm, tiny flames dancing along the candelabras whooshed quietly, imperceptibly had they been born as normal men; had anyone in this household been born normal.

"Fine. I'll make a deal with you," Geralt added after a moment.

Regis lost his even-temper sometime before and now regarded him with calculating black eyes.

"Oh? A bargaining witcher."

"Shut up," he snapped. He was tired, very tired. But Regis had made many promises up until this point. What had Geralt done in return? After all, the vampire had used his special resources in the search of Ciri. They all did. For that, above all else, meant something to him. They all meant something to him. Shortly after their reunion, the witcher had read the vampire's personal journal. It was invasive and a mistake, but he gained insight from it; Regis feared he would lose Dettlaff. It was because of the aforementioned Geralt was able to have this very heated dispute at all. And despite this, Geralt knew within his heart of hearts, if it ever came down to it, Regis would not allow Dettlaff to harm him.

 _Regis understands,_  Geralt told himself.  _He was there until the end. He saw it all. There's no one left who remembers the journey for what it was; a suicide. Even I was prepared to die._

_How was I the only one to survive?_

_"_ When it comes down to it," the witcher said quietly while he looked down. He hated the way he sounded; hated how tight his chest was; how he had to force himself to breathe. "No matter what happens, I will do everything in my power to let Dettlaff go free. Everything. Damn the duchy, damn Syanna. Damn everyone else and dammit all. But you must allow me to take Laz away from here.

Without you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got the djinn weakness from non-witcher lore, stating that, although talented shapeshifters, they can not turn into a wolf. It causes the djinn to *poof* but instead of vanishing, her djinness simply goes dormant.


	28. When the Waking Up is Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My sweet darling,
> 
> all these tears,
> 
> this hurt,
> 
> the pain in your heart,
> 
> do not fight it anymore,
> 
> it is a gift, you see, to feel this much
> 
> and even though it's hard
> 
> it means you're alive
> 
> with each of these tearful breaths gasped
> 
> your soul awakens,
> 
> more alive in the pain
> 
> than you were in the numb,
> 
> you are coming back to me now, my love
> 
> lucid in the darkness―
> 
> so cry aloud,
> 
> yell,
> 
> and fall,
> 
> and I will be here waiting
> 
> to catch you
> 
> when the waking up is done
> 
> -Love Her Wild, pg 31. Atticus

They stopped, all of them.

The last image burned into her mind was the scarred sorcerer with his tiny, disfigured eye while slate fire poured from his fingertips. The pain and bestial howl tearing through the air snapped her awake like a shock of cold water.

Gasping and clutching the bedding as she came to, all that remained was the resonating scream locked to memory and a blackness bleeding away from the corner of her eyes.

A moment passed. The room was quiet sans her heavy breathing. She stared at the ceiling gathering herself as relief washed over her and heralded the disturbing images into the recess of her mind. It was more than a nightmare, that much she knew. _Much more._ She also knew she would never forget it. Not only that, she was afraid mentioning to Regis would embarrass him. A wealth of information had been revealed to her. Every lover, for example. She even witnessed the night he crashed into a well and was attacked by the locals where they staked him, tore him apart, and buried him. Her stomach twisted by the thought. How was he alive?

Voices from downstairs carried through the floor: Regis' and the witcher's. Between the quick exchanges, it seemed they were arguing, albeit quietly. A flash of lightning drew her attention toward the window. Perhaps the storm raging outside had something to do with it. Even she felt the electricity tingling in the air.

Laz got out of bed, dressed in a large long sleeve shirt that fell to her knees then tiptoed across the room. She paused at the doorway to eavesdrop.

"I think it's best you tell her, Regis." the witcher's unmistakable tenor carried up the stairs. "I can see her being difficult with me."

 _Tell me what?_ She opened the door silently and sat down on the top step.

"No matter the messenger," Regis countered, "Any being would have trouble accepting they were taken from their families and cursed by a witch."

Laz's blood ran cold.

 _Taken. Cursed. Witch_.

Like clockwork, the urge to defend Keira with her entire being sprung to life.

_But then again…_

She reached up to touch a coarse horn with her fingertips. At her side rested her tail, flicking its white tuft of fur lazily along the topmost step from where she sat. If she thought about it, she could make it move in whatever manner she'd like, curling it like a monkey's or whipping it side-to-side when she was aggravated. Oddly enough, that was more repulsive than waking in a wolf's carcass.

In truth, she was still very upset about these characteristics. It helped that Regis wanted to make love to  _her,_ not an illusion. Even more so when he paid careful attention to every inch of her body, especially her new attributes. When he gripped a horn, turning her head so, seeking a warm home to sink his extending fangs somewhere along her neck―now an immediate favorite of hers.

When it came to him, all of her shortcomings fell to the back of her mind. Under his gaze, she felt beautiful; against his touch, she was desired. Albeit, the lectures Keira bestowed upon Laz's adolescents regarding a woman, and her confidence was now for naught. Laz did not feel confident and certainly not comfortable in her skin, not anymore. After Keira's death, a new perspective was in motion, she understood Regis would not always be there to battle her insecurities for her.

A pang of self-pity wrenched her heart.

_I feel so pathetic. Who am I now? What is all this and what does it mean to me?_

Her steady upbringing was a lie, and there was no family left to turn to now. She was grasping for a sound reality while discovering so much of herself. Life was suddenly a sensory overload, dripping with vampire's blood, naked, and writhing. Sex fueled, fear-laden, out of control. Memories written in a subject's blood brought visions, dreams, and nightmares.

Now, Geralt of Rivia had something to tell her.

"Speaking of Keira," the witcher interrupted her thoughts. "You should ask her where the body is buried. The seal might be with her. Not only that, if our attempts at Kaer Morhen fail, we'll need to bring the body with us instead of coming all the way back to Toussaint."

 _He wants to dig her up,_ Laz's stomach tied up in knots.  _For a seal?_

"Kaer Morhen is quite far," agreed the vampire. "As far as exhuming the body, witcher, I fear she's dealing with enough already. Give her some time to deal with each transgression. The duchy is hunting a curse she has no control over. Her mother is dead. Now there isn't even a friend to turn to, not without conspiracies arising." Regis paused, thoughtful. "Did anything happen after you went to search for the amphitheater beast?"

A chair groaned. The voiceless drone of rain filled the room like fog.

"A few things," Geralt said. "I took to horse, ran it down. I was gonna kill it. But just before I struck with my sword, it looked back at me. It's eyes―they were like hers. I knew then that I was looking at Laz,  _at the curse_. I tried to dampen the blow by dropping my elbow but…," his voice trailed off, leaving the rest for the imagination. "When I came back around, she was gone."

Laz came down the stairs. Geralt shifted his eyes over Regis' shoulder just as she stopped at the bottom. She felt small and vulnerable before him. He had that effect on many, and it was clear even she wasn't immune to his formidable presence.

But it was time to hold up her end of the bargain. As many believed and as many times as Regis suggested, the witcher was the solution to her problem.

Still, she was frightened. To look at him. To approach him, to speak.

Regis followed his gaze. Upon seeing her, his expression softened.

"My dear," he rose and closed the distance, bringing his arms around her with an assuring embrace and a kiss. She felt better now, much better. If only she could stay here in his arms a little longer. But an eternity would pass before she was ready.

"Alright," she spoke with a small voice, separating herself from the vampire to brave a glance at the witcher. "What is it you have to tell me?"

The tunic now seemed too big for her, making her look thin and frail. She gripped Regis' forearm to steady herself but also to keep from fleeing up the stairs and away from the situation altogether.

Geralt glanced at Regis, then stood, annoyed. Courtesies aside, he felt getting it out simply and forthwith meant the sooner they could head for Kaer Morhen. Granted, he still had much left to do in Beauclair. It was the third day and considering Regis remained at Corvo Bianco only told him Dettlaff was still waiting at Tesham Mutna for Syanna's arrival. That bothered him.

"There's no other way to say this," he straight-faced. "Keira is not your foster mother. She abducted you. Took you from your home, your family, and cursed you. All the suffering you can pay homage to her. The amnesia, the numbness, it's all her doing. I'm sorry." He wasn't sure why he was apologizing. Perhaps it was because the more he revealed, the more his medallion tugged on its chain and the more wounded her expression fell. "This lycanthropy is part of that curse. The wolf is not you; it never was."

Having just woken, her hair was a cascading mess down her back, tangled around her horns with eyes bright and molten-gold. Had she green eyes, a few more inches added to her height, and a scar…

Geralt cleared his throat.

Lowering her eyes, the djinn's expression twisted in a variety of fleeting emotions. None could linger long enough before the next one swept in and took its place. Regis pulled her close where she rested her head against his chest. He wrapped her in his arms and squeezed her, hoping the harder he held her, the less she trembled. Outside, the wind howled mournfully, slapping the shutters against the house's facade.

Conflicted as she was, Laz wanted to trust the witcher solely because Regis did, but it was much easier to hate him and harbor contempt instead.

"I know it hurts," the vampire whispered in her hair. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with her scent; a meadow of wildflowers and morning's dew. He withdrew a second time, not allowing his presence to buffer the news.

It was the witcher's words against Keira. Keira, her mother; her guardian; the lighthouse in a dark black sea that was Lazarus. She remembered all the denizen standing outside their thatched roof cabin bawling and begging for help. A large portion of her wanted to be angry but when searching through her register of profound emotions found they all led to uncertainty. Maybe he was right. After all, Keira led her to believe she'd been discovered as a pup, indicating her natural form; the Eye proved that to be untrue. Then there was the most prevalent discovery; her true identity: horns, claws, and tail.

Even in the witcher's calculating eyes, she couldn't find a shadow of deception; he told the truth.

It  _did_ hurt. It hurt beyond a wolf bursting from her chest.

"I want to help," Geralt read her reluctance. "But it's going to take time and a lot of magic, magic that I don't have and equipment that's not accessible. Not here, at least."

 _What could magic possibly provide at this point?_ she thought. It was magic that cursed he _r._

She nodded, looking up at Regis, reaching for his arm and clutching it. He adjusted, withdrawing the arm she clung to place across her shoulders and tuck her into his side. There was solace here against him, and she sought it thoroughly, wrapping her arms around his waist and holding him close. Her heart knocked against her ribs, seeking a doorway to crawl into Regis' chest where it would be safe from harm and these corrosive emotions.

After so many painful lies fed to her by someone she loved and trusted, she wondered how the truth would sound coming from a man she abhorred.

"At least tell me what happened to Keira."

The critical request could have easily been a conjured curse or a shadow sweeping across the room for how sudden the mood darkened. The stone in her throat now felt like a fist squeezing her airway closed.

The witcher's features softened to the point that Laz didn't recognize him at all. No longer a mutant, a freak, or a witcher, but a man with regret and forlorn.

"Geralt," Regis said softly. "Show her. Do not tell her. Show her."

Laz shot him a look.

Fear crawled up her spine like a thousand spiders.

Carefully, the white-haired man removed his worn leather gloves. She didn't want to let Regis go, but he insisted, prying her fingers apart and detaching her encasing arms. He stepped behind her, brushing her hair from her shoulders. He leaned over, placing a tender kiss on her temples.

She stared at the witcher while her heartbeat doubled and climbed into her throat.

 _I have to drink from him._ Her mouth went dry as she stepped away from the vampire's protective enclosure.

 _They were friends before me,_ she recited.  _A time long ago._

Geralt held out his large hand pale, scarred, and calloused. Laz placed hers along his proffered palm. Her skin tone was stark against his. The Toussaint sun had kissed every inch of her, whereas under his jerkin and chainmail his skin was nearly transparent.

An inviting tingle crept up her arm. She remembered this when he saved her from being raped. Their travel back to his estate she'd felt the same tingle. Then, she ignored it. Now she could not.

He closed his hand around hers, providing a constant current of magic humming her bones.

Laz closed her eyes, not only to think but to enjoy the sensation. Her brow knitted in concentration whilst the witcher's touch warmed her. Like the room, her mind was quiet. Even the storm had died down substantially, enveloping the bottom floor of Corvo Bianco into a quiet respite. She listened to the witcher's breathing, soft and relaxed, compared to her rigid, immobile stature.

She forced her shoulders to loosen, held his hand tighter, and focused until a tiny prick of pain stab her behind the eyes.

She removed her hand and glanced back at Regis.

"It's not working," she frowned. "I need to…." her voice trailed off as she searched the vampire's face for an answer.  _Anything but that._

Frankly, blood made her aroused and she didn't need any more conflict regarding the witcher.

"That won't be necessary," Regis uncrossed his arms and came to her. "That is reserved for only  _you and I._ Here you must concentrate like you did with me. Blood has nothing to do with it." Regis addressed the witcher. "Odd as it sounds, please remove your top. I believe the more physical contact she has with a subject, the better they can provide as a conduit to their memories."

This was news to Laz. It appeared they both understood her ability better then she did herself for Geralt did as he was told, silently unbuckling belts, sloughing mail and hardened leather until he bared down to just his blood-stained breeches and scuffed boots. Laz averted her gaze at once but saw enough to blush furiously.

Respiring, she forced herself to meet his reptilian eyes she'd quickly grown to despise. He was unreadable at first but stiffened when she stepped closer, pressing her palm against his bare chest.

He inhaled deeply, watching her every move.

_To touch him like this, as if we were lovers, is strange. My lover is behind me―watching._

Then she thought of Dettlaff and hated herself for it.

Her other hand followed, splaying her fingers across the catalog of scars scribed into his chest. She felt his heartbeat but only faintly while hers throbbed painfully high in her throat.

Still nothing.

Laz slid her hands further up, resting them on his broad shoulders. She lowered her head, unable to resist gazing at his torso. Regis' figure was much similar sans the abuse. Just as pale and lean, the vampire's skin was utterly unscathed, like a statue carved from flawless, white marble, which she liked. Nonetheless, the witcher's anatomy had its charms and pleased the eyes; there was no denying that.

Something brushed the small of her back, causing her to step forward. His smell breached her senses. Sweat, metal, even a few fragrances of flora as if he'd picked flowers recently.

 _A flower-picking monster killer._ That was how it all started, she realized with a sad smile. It began in the Carorberta Woods without a care in the world, she plucked flowers before her travel to Velen and now she stood before a witcher;  _the witcher._ Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken, the White Wolf. The Wise Wolf.

Laz rose her head and met his eyes a second time. His pupils were swollen slits. She imagined her pupils were dilated too. They searched each others face for several seconds before she slid her hands up his neck and cupped his jawline. She coaxed him down until their foreheads pressed together. He shut his eyes; she did, as well.

Then it started.

* * *

By the time Geralt of Rivia's story played out, they had hunted and slew monsters of every ilk, swam through refuse and still stunk a week after. They danced along the broken battlements of Kaer Morhen with their sword, negotiated with dryads in a dense forest, and saved a small child from large centipedes. He had saved a great many before and after her, too.

The life of the White Wolf was an unfathomable measure of feats, adventures, heartache, and peril, exhibiting a walk of life Laz would never, ever experience. She heard the cries as phantoms raced across the night sky―harbingers of the White Frost, which she was no stranger to the prophecies; even Keira spoke of them. She listened to the eerie silence of Brokilon forest, felt eyes hidden, watching as Geralt navigated the grove alone. She saw a storm, much like the one now, hover over a city. Laz couldn't look away from the entity howling with rage as it tugged against a magical tether that kept him bound below.

She met a number of people during the witcher's plight: a Nilfgaardian searching for someone. A talented archer with a single plait who wanted to protect the witcher. A rowdy girl with flaxen hair and a sailor's tongue. Zoltan Chivay. Yarpen Zigrin. Yennefer, his true love. Triss, an old flame. Vilgefortz, the sorcerer. And many, many others she could never forget, that Geralt had never forgotten.

There was only one who stayed with her. They lingered at the corner of their eyes, vanishing when they looked and emerged from the shadows when they turned their backs. She was there with them, watching his life unfold, as much a part of the memories but also separate, somehow.

Her name was Ciri.

_Daughter. Witcher-girl. Empress._

_The Lion Cub of Cintra._

Beings she'd heard in passing conversations, beings whose life and death brought wars across the country, ballads of the White Wolf and his emerald-eyed destiny. They were all real and she saw them through the witcher's eyes.

Then she saw Keira.

Keira, with her long flaxen hair, pale hazel eyes, and provocative attire. Grief's dagger stabbed her heart down to its hilt. In the vision, she collapsed. If not for Geralt, she would have hit the dirt, but he caught her and held her up as their past conversations unfurled.

They were back on Fyke Isle, arguing. It was Keira who attacked first, refusing to concede to the witcher no matter his warnings. It was clear as day Keira did not expect Laz's return. After all, it was the sorceresses idea that she stretch her legs and explore the unknown, only to discover Keira had no intention of waiting for that journey to come full circle.

No, Keira Metz planned on reestablishing herself at the court halls and advising for Radovid the Stern, the man responsible for the horrific treatment and killings of all nonhumans. All for some scraps of paper.

_Yes, she wept and fluttered me out of the door. She knew the witcher was coming and that he would take me away if he discovered me._

_Too late for that, Keira. You're dead and the witcher is still taking me away..._

Grief's dagger, now sharpened by Truth, twisted, gouging her already bleeding heart.

Laz sagged against the witcher until they both sank to their knees in the muck and mire as the conversation soured and turned hostile.

Then that, too, flew past to be replaced as the memories carried on, unconcerned with Laz's and this sudden change of events. They fled from Velen to Novigrad, assassinated a king before moving onto Skellige where a woman took the crown of the isles, and then back to Rivia. It ended in a place where apple blossoms bloomed eternally. Yennefer was there and so were the others.

When Laz opened her eyes, she was back in Corvo Bianco. Both she and the witcher were on the floor, holding each other as if the world had come undone and left them behind. She withdrew a sharp breath, realizing she was weeping and continued to do so. The storm outside had returned. The stormy gale howled like a banshee, rattling the tree branches like bones.

Geralt did not shed a tear; he could not and she understood clearly.

So she mourned for the both of them.

Then there was a knock at the door.


	29. The Visitors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The army of vampires unleashes themselves upon Beauclair. Laz tests her abilities in order to save Beauclair from the fires and falls into despair.

All three individuals paused. Even the dancing shadows slowed as if they were also caught by surprise. No one was expecting company, but neither made a move towards the door, surmising it to be a worker inquiring about the estate or wellbeing of the vineyard. _It can_ _wait_ , the shadows whispered.

Laz leaned back to gaze up at the witcher's face. A heavily guarded expression met hers briefly before Geralt shut yellow his eyes and turned away. His arms loosened around her until she slid out of his embrace, taking with him that pleasant tingle. Leaving in its stead was weighty hurt. It was not her pain she felt; it was the brunt of his. She had dragged the dead from the coffins of his memory and forced him to grieve for them once more. Because she needed to see the truth about Keira. She’d opened all of his wounds to heal _one_ of hers.

A painful knot formed in her throat she couldn't' breathe around. The sights and places Geralt’s mind took her. _The people_ who'd sacrificed themselves; the others who did everything they could to deter or destroy him; the bloodshed; the wars; the betrayal. But most of all something haunting clung to Laz’s senses, refusing to abate the horrific sight and the chilling sound: a charred pillar and a bubbling pile of blackened gore, high in the tower of a elusive castle. Geralt's scream still resonated in her head.

Laz wrenched around, fearing the past had reached up and swept him away.  To her relief, he was not and remained exactly where she'd left him. Scrambling to her feets, she threw herself against Regis. She squeezed until he grunted, pulling him closer to her heart, wishing, praying to become one.  Even her tail wrapped around his thigh. The past couldn’t take him so long she held him tight.

 _This is real. He is real. He's here with me_.

The words came like a mantra. No matter that she could _feel_ him envelope around her; he’d died somehow.

She grieved, not just for Regis, but the witcher, too.

And for Cahir, Milva, Angouleme... All the others.

Regis grazed his claws down her back, summoning gooseflesh.  She squeezed him again, pressing her face firmly into his chest. He lowered his head to rest a cheek against a horn and continued to stroke her back.

 _S_ hamed colored her face warm when she realized how wrong she was about the witcher; the White Wolf. More wolf than she. He deserved such a moniker; she did not.

_I was wrong about Keira, too._

To brave to the morning sun, the night sky; the unforgiving heat and the blowing, wintry peaks. There were no charms to disguise the witcher's nature, nothing to protect him from this world of stone. How did he do it? From his betraying eyes, to the swords strapped to his back, down to the grisly head of a beast hanging from his horse’s flank, the witcher never hid his true nature.  Every village he tasted scorn, felt the cold buffets of contempt and disdain. Exiled. Ostracized. Mocked, ridiculed, hated. Most of all: feared. It was that fear that preserved most his life, though many tried to take it. Locals cried for his help, but as soon as the sword fell removing whatever horrors plagued their dreams or their crops, they turned their backs and shored up their hatefulness. She was no different in that regard; Laz had been one of them to show him such and hated him solely because of consensus, sans Keira. Now she saw the Witcher in a much, much different light. No spells had protected him from the inevitable disgust. No illusions covered or eluded his true identity. He braved the world for what he was and how they saw him never changed. Laz wished she was that brave. To be that fearless and courageous. He was a force unparalleled.

Aside of her feelings towards Geralt, aspects of her individuality had also changed. Since that moment on Fyke Isle from the time she pulled herself from the depths to stare at the corpse of her mother, a part of her was left behind, molted like spider skin or the scales of a snake. A woman she once loved and even worshipped, Keira was life and death in Lazarus' eyes; her creator and later, as she discovered, her destroyer. What she saw in Geralt’s memory was… another illusion painted prettily with a forced smile, covered in baubles and expensive perfume with a plunging neckline.

If not for Keira’s death, perhaps vengeance would have redirected itself, but after a moment's thought, that was untrue. Keira still held a matriarchal position in her eyes and thus, a being she could not willingly kill. Nonetheless, fate found its way around full circle. Laz was...not free, yet, _but she was close_. So close. It took vampires blood for her powers to be coaxed from their dormancy. What other talents were hidden in her fingertips? Was it because of its restorative properties? What else could it do? Moreover, who was she now?

_Djinn. D'ao._

She tasted the thought like a heady wine, full in body and deadlier the further one reached into its mysterious depths. She had more questions than answers now. What was hidden before now stared her straight in the eyes; she was changing. Not only in a  physical sense but mentally. Vampires were real. Witchers were not monsters. Keira _was_ a witch and in the end, it had been a curse all along.

 _How could I be such a prejudice fool?_ Laz filled her lungs with the scent of Regis until her lungs ached. Sage, thyme, cinnamon. She could even taste him beneath all his misleading fragrances.

Slowly, her thoughts strayed Detlaff, to the day she found both witcher and barber-surgeon in the cemetery. A day the witcher could have walked alone, if not for Detlaff. If not for Geralt; if not for Detlaff. What if, what if, what if. None of this would have happened. None of it.

Laz decided through these series of heartaches and grief, she’d learned a great deal. She was so close to freedom, to shed the shackles Keira had confined her in. What if?

What if she’d never known witcher or vampire?

What if she never made it to Toussaint?

What if she never left Midcopse?

What if? What if? What if? The thought stirred something buried deeply; a debilitating fear. She couldn’t go back to that life. No matter how painful and confusing this one had become. She had Regis.. And now she had Geralt.

Another knock came, more impatient than the one before. They'd forgotten about the visitor.

Geralt quickly donned his clothes and crossed the room. He paused and looked down at his chest for brief moment, glanced at his stashed swords then turned the handle.

An icy breeze slipped into the room like a sibilated warning, followed by the stench of ash and smoke. Only then, did Laz and Regis pause and turn to see the cloaked woman soaked by the passing rain. She stood before the threshold with dark hair clinging to a beautiful pale face. A slow smile lifted her features until it strained, stretching her lips apart until every sharp tooth revealed itself. Her unwavering eyes locked onto the witcher.

This wasn’t a worker.

 _Something was wrong_.

There was a hiss, a blur, and flash of fangs. Regis stiffened and shoved Laz forward just as Geralt turned, catching her into his arms and throwing her roughly towards the floor. He crashed atop of her, shoving her beneath him as a golden sphere erupted around them. The air shattered and trembled the walls, knocking down pictures and rattled the doors upon their hinges. Glass exploded.

A muffled scream tore through the small dining room, challenging the flames to stay alight and shaking the floor beneath Laz. She tried to seek Regis but the shadows were coming alive, separating and blurring and sparks spat, throwing the dim room intp a blinding shower. Steel clashed but no weapons were drawn. Bare feet and boots flew past her face as the sphere began to ripple and wane; it dropped and the cacophony slammed into her ears and the danger collapsed all around them.

Bare feet and boots flew past her face as the sphere began to ripple; it dropped and cacophony stabbed her ears and the danger collapsed all around them like debris. Sepulchral laughter and guttural hisses whipped past with unfathomable speed.

Immediately Geralt hauled her to her feet and through the door. Furniture flew and crashed into the walls, spewing splinters.

Something bigger waited from them outside, slamming down into the ground with such force, the flagstone buckled. Laz screamed, faltering back as the beast leaned forward and blew a hellish roar directly into her face, washing her with the fetor of fresh blood. The Witcher yanked her back as a gust of air shot out of his palms, sending the entity tumbling across the ground.

They were running again.

Geralt half dragged her towards his small stable as more beings tore through the estate. Bodies laid asunder. Workers screamed and wailed from the shadows. Those who could not scream or lament, held their bleeding necks and chests as bright blood gushed from their mortal wounds. The metallic tang saturated the air, driving the blood-driven creatures into a frenzy. Things that shouldn’t laugh did. More fiends bent over their helpless prey,  smearing blood about their visages like drunks.

“Regis!” she cried as Geralt hoisted her atop of his horse and quickly saddled behind her. The mare stamped her hooves, alarmed by the havoc.

Laz tossed a look over her shoulders just as the woman fell across the threshold of Corvo Bianco as she attempted to flee. Stalking her was Regis. She tried to scramble to her feet, but he caught her by the head. Laz’s stomach churned and flopped when he cleaved it off of her shoulders in an effortless pull. The woman’s scream cut short when the flesh and tendons around her neck stretched and severed. Regis tossed it aside then looked across the estate. She saw his gruesome, blood-flecked visage. Snarling, eyes ink-black, fangs fully extended. She could hardly look away out of fear and fascination. Then he dispersed into a dense fog, reappeared before another fiend, and provided the same services he had for his prior victim.

Geralt cursed, kicking his horse hard enough she reared, snapping Laz free from her trance. She turned back into the saddle, following the witcher’s gaze and intent as they flew towards the town.

She froze. Lost function of her lungs and all thoughts.

Beauclair was ablaze.

And hordes of bloodlusting fiends amassed in the sky.

* * *

Columns of smoke churned over the clock tower, the brothels, and the bay. Flames licked and belched, devouring with an insatiable hunger, driven and goaded by the chaos fluttering above and stalking below.  Geralt snapped the reins and heeled his mare into a thunderous gallop.

“We can’t leave Regis!” she exclaimed again, battling the witcher for the reins. She’d turn this damn animal around and retrieve him herself.

“He doesn’t need us!” the witcher barked. “Now shut up and hold on.”

Something in his voice forced Laz to shut up and obey. She leaned forward, gripping the mare’s hair tightly. They rode on, abandoning Corvo Bianco in their wake.

She lifted her face into the lashing wind and watched the city she called her home glow brightly.

 _It’s the third day,_ she frowned.  _Detlaff._

The stalking ekimmaras; the howling fleders, she'd seen them before...but where?

“Why are we going _towards_ Beauclair!” she cried, watching the ground fly beneath them, bringing the inferno closer with every gallop.

It took a moment before the witcher responded. He jerked the reins sharply while swiping with the tip of his sword at anything that came too close.

“I need to reach the Duchess,” he shouted over the shrieks and leaned forward, pressing his chest into her back and driving his sword upward. A black mass swooped across their backs, and spray of warm blood splashed across them. Laz gagged as severed entrails bounced off of their pursuits, leaving the gutted fiend in their dusty wake.

Something pinched her and she shot a look down. Her tail was wrapped around one of Geralt’s leg and had gotten caught between his boot and his stirrups. Another application of reality slapped her across the face.

They were going before the duchy. She was about to meet Her Illustrious Grace for the first time with _horns_ and a _tail._ Not only that, they were going _through_ the city, looking as she did and with her condition to shift when her enviromental stressors overwhelmed her. What if she changed? What if that placed Geralt in a hazardous situation? She squeezed her eyes tightly and focused on the jostling ride, the tingle she still managed to feel with the witcher behind her. Anything but the frightening fact that the ducal court was about to see Lazarus, a Djinn in her true, singular glory. If she could make it to the castle without panicking.

They were going to have her head, she feared, alongside every beast they could catch before dawn.

Laz shook her head.

Now was not to the time to be selfish. Toussaint was aflame, the sky black with winged creatures, and she was being heralded into the town _by a witcher._ She opened her eyes again, smelling horse sweat, smoke and pitch. As they drew closer, happening upon more fleders and katakans, screams of the dying rivaled their hellish calls. Chaos reigned. The Beauclair bell tolled and tolled, and tolled... People were dying. _Ygritte. Imogen._

Another surge of emotions wrought through her, fraying her nerves and concentration, heightening her already climbing apprehension.

Where were they? Were they okay? Oh gods... If the monsters didn't get to them, the fires would. Without asking, she knew Geralt would object to a detour. He was making a direct route to the palace and nowhere else. The Pheasantry was well below the palace bridge, near the harbor. Laz looked up at night sky with its scattering of clouds.  

She pushed herself up, leaning against the witcher’s chest even if it made him uncomfortable, even if his armor pinched her, and shut her eyes. She pictured Dettlaff burying his fangs into her and her time spent in the dungeons where she met _Rhenawedd_. She heard Hawkes beneath her old room, yelling at her because she was too stiff and sore to move. She saw Midcopse villagers badgering all hours of day and night; their begging, and their bawling. She thought of Keira sprawled, dead, alone. A witch, never a sorceress, and far from a mother. How was that any different than all the times Laz died? Sprawled out, dead, and alone. Who was there to mourn for Lazarus? Who was there to pick her up from the dirt and carry her home?

All the cursed nights she bent over while her bones broke beneath her, skin split, blood pouring out of mortal wounds.

This was not the life she was supposed to live. Djinn, D'oa, or simply a demon, this was not her life. This was a curse Keira subjected her to in order to control her and feed from. 

Her plan worked.

Anger flared, black and deep. A distant rumble replied like a stirring beast awoken by her surmounting ire. The clouds pulsed and churned like a frothing cauldron. More rolled down the side of Mt. Gorgon like an army of shapeless phantoms. The sky darkened once more with the heaviest part hanging directly overhead, following relentless as the witcher cut and gutted a path towards the palace. Laz focused until the world fell away and replaced it when a numbing cold. She dug deep, sifting through the cold, broke past it all, lost within herself, searching through the numbness until she could feel again.

The grief, the sorrow, the ache. She wanted it, needed it.

 _No more cold. I want to feel._  

Geralt tied the reins around the pommel and hooked an arm around her waist when she began to list in the saddle. Her eyes rolled into the back of her skull, revealing the bloodshot whites beneath, head lulling while Geralt struggled to keep her upright while defending their flanks.

The darkness called to her. Lured by the seductive sound, she followed it. However, she was not alone. Voice hissed and spat in a language unknown. Their harsh parlance slithered through the abyss like snakes, beseeching her to heed their words, to answer their prayers.

 _Free me,_ they said.  _Release us._

Confused, she reached out, straining a hand through the darkness. Laz could still hear from far away the hooves beat the earth and feel the witcher's energy, the very energy she needed. She leaned further, afraid to step too far into the pitch lest she was unable to return. 

_There's no turning back. This is it. This is it._

Her fingers brushed against something. Without delay, she grabbed and held it tightly. The thing jerked and shuddered, surprised and relieved to find another in the endless void. Though she had no way of confirming it without the ability to see, she  _felt_ it twisting and growing until it grew to a colossal size _and turned_ to face her. Wings fluttered in the darkness. Sharp talons sank glittered, then sank into her shoulders. The voices rose to shouts and screamed for her. Claws gathered her hair into a fist, yanking her head back. A snake wound its way around her horn, dripping with yellow scales and sinewy muscle. Tiny fingers found her mouth, prying her lips apart, forcing it open as it chattered incessantly. A falcon cried, a snake hissed. Beast, hot-blooded, cold-blood; feathered, hirsute, and scaled vied for the entrance to her mouth. 

Finally, she couldn't bear it.

She screamed and the creatures surged forth, crowding into her mouth and into her chest until she couldn't breathe.

Thunder clapped and shattered the sky. Lightning flashed relentlessly, blinding everything in a stop-motion display. It seemed time had slowed as they barreled forth. Blood splashed. Fiends swooped and cried. Geralt remained lithe and alert atop his saddle as they tore through the streets of Beauclair. Those without the gift of flight bounded through the narrow passageway with impressive leaps, flanking the witcher from all sides, claws extended, screams tearing from their horrible maws. The cobblestone inclined sharply, leading them straight towards the palace bridge.

Then the earth began to shift and groan.


	30. Tooth, Beak, & Claw

When Geralt reached the inner section of the ducal palace, he could barely keep Laz in the saddle. Half her body hung off the side, arms dangling, hair a wavy white curtain that tickled Roach's side. Guards rushed his flanks, helping remove her before she plummeted to the cobblestone and broke her neck. In utter silence and not a second late, Regis appeared, coming through a set of pillars masked in shadows.

"Give her to him," Geralt told the guard with a grumble. He was tired of babysitting and the fact she decided to pass out in the midst of it all really pissed him off. The rain was nice for putting out the fires, but Geralt hated when it rained. Now he was drenched and stifled. And annoyed.

Together they approached the veranda where Duchess Anna Henrietta paced furiously. Someone cleared their throat, interrupting her colorful fussing, and she spun around. Spotting Geralt and Regis, her red-faced flushed a new, deeper shade of red.

"Witcher!" Anna spat like a foul word, stomping away from the balustrade. "What is the gods' name is happening to my city! You  _promised_ to deliver the beast-," she gasped, studying the woman-like creature cradled in Regis' arms who's features were concealed by a portion of white hair. She pinched the bridge of her nose with a delicate hand then scowled. "I'm not even going to ask. Why haven't you cut that accursed creature down? What is taking so long?"

"Your Grace, if I may," Regis began gently. "Syanna-"

"I have heard enough!" she cut him off then pressed a sharp manicured nail to her heaving chest, voice rising. "Syanna is  _my_ responsibility and will not be appearing before the ruins of some long forgotten fortress nor will she answer to any criminal to the duchy! I want Detlaff's _head!_ " Her glare shifted from Geralt to Regis to the woman in his arms. "What the Lebioda's name is  _that?_ " she snarled, conceding to her curiosity. "Is  _that_ what I've been paying you for? To cart away drunk harlots  _while my city burns!"_

Anna whirled around, dress flaring as she moved, and snapped her fingers at a throng of guards. "Take her. They've got work to do and I need them undistracted. We'll keep her as payment. You can have her back when you bring me Dettlaff." But as the guards moved forward, Geralt watched the faintest twitch in the vampire's upper lip. As her mate, it was sheer instinct to protect her; an act treading dangerously close to the thin threshold that separated man from animal. Or in this case: human from vampire. The same primordial force that drove Dettlaff to kill.

" _Regis,_ " Geralt warned, "Let her go." He felt the weight of his words take on a different meaning, though he didn't understand it at the time. Regis allowed the guard to take her, but as he did, she snapped awake. And the unfamiliar face startled her.

Wrenching from the man's hold like a cat held above water, Laz fell onto her feet. A hand shot out and captured the offending guard by the throat where she squeezed,  _and squeezed,_  digging her nails into his flesh until his eyes bulged and beads of blood swelled around her claws. His bones started to pop.

"Guards!" The duchess shouted. "Seize her!"

Laz whipped her head around towards the sound and it was then Geralt realized something was different. Both men stopped short for her eyes, a fiery gold, were wide and feral. This was the moment he'd warned about, a moment he hoped to avoid at all cost.

"Dammit, get back!" Geralt freed one of his swords. "Everyone, get back!"

Hell's litany of startled shrieks and fearful cries erupted. The duchess was promptly removed while the company dispersed, spreading out just as Laz ripped the meat right from her victim's neck. Blood sprayed, painting her chest and face, adding to the terrible rising alarm that stirred the air. As the body slumped to the ground, convulsing in his expelled body fluid and gushing blood, she turned slowly, still holding the dripping esophagus in her claws until she met Geralt's eyes.

"Witcher," she seethed in a hollow, scratchy voice that lifted the air upon his neck and arms. Her eyes were cruel and cold, the true reflection of a powerful djinn. Whatever moral humanity remained in her was either dying or lost entirely. He understood now: Keira evoked the curse to keep Laz from going mad, to keep her as close to behaving human as she could. It was never about control, but safety. For her. For the locals.

"Regis, make sure no one comes any closer." Geralt set his jaw and stepped forward, tracing a wide circle around her with his sword drawn. With her feral eyes trained on him, she released the severed bone and ran a snake's tongue across her palm, closing her eyes blissfully.

"I've always wondered what a witcher would taste like," she whispered, licking the blood from her lips as she opened her eyes.

He stopped moving, bringing his sword across his forefront as he positioned himself. "Come and find out."

She exploded into a mass of screaming crows that undulated like a current, flew out and condensed into a solid figure behind him. He leaped forward, pirouetting to keep her at his front. Her laughter floating through the air like a phantom.

 _Shit,_ he cursed.  _Shit, shit, shit._ There was no way he could win this, not without a sorceress at hand and certainly not without her seal, which had yet to be found. His thoughts worked rapidly, aligning possibilities and weighing risks. It wasn't looking good. Along with learning how to shapeshift, he feared what her more nefarious abilities included. Djinn were omnipotent, capable of unimaginable feats, and frankly, quite mean. Considering a living tree hadn't climbed up the side of the castle to rip him apart nor the earth cracking open to swallow the entire duchy whole meant she didn't know that, which, all in all, was good news. For a witcher, at least.

A drawstring snapped, firing a whistling arrow through the air, several more followed. One found a home in the center of Laz's chest, another embedded into her shoulder, the rest hit the hard ground around her feet. She was already gone, leaping soundlessly across the stone as a jaguar, and capturing an archer. She was human again, ripping the first man's ribcage open with her bare hands. She dug like a dog, slinging entrails and blood and when the screams left his dying lungs, she lunged after the others. The remaining archers scattered, fumbling between their crossbows and their swords stuck in their sheaths, wailing and tripping over themselves to escape. Geralt charged. At the same time a dark mass flew past him.  _Regis._ The entity slammed into her before she could grab another victim and flay him alive. They rolled and grappled until coming to a stop where the struggle continued. The vampire came out on top, catching both of her wrists and snarling in her face while he stretched his body across hers.

"Stop this madness!" Regis growled, fangs fully extended and eyes glossy, black orbs in a twisted bat-like face.

Pinned to the stone floor, Laz thrashed and screamed which broke into a peal of manic laughter then into a sharp plaintive wail.

"I don't know!" she shrieked, softer and more feminine. Not the guttural hissing just before. "Help me!"She was still in there, struggling. Then the insufferable rage returned, filling her with an anger that lured a deep chest-driven growl. She swiped at his cheek, slicing his face open and squirming out from under him where she shifted into an eagle. The massive wings beat the air once, twice, then a third time before she emerged as a human again, landing gracelessly on her feet several meters away. She stumbled and tripped, hitting the stone hard with her knees.

Geralt had an idea. An idea he hated but it was better than waiting until she summoned an army of panthers or boars.

"Regis!" he shouted. "Weaken her!" He needn't explain further.

The vampire picked himself up and followed her, fading into smoke as he moved. A heartbeat later, Laz's head yanked back from an invisible force. There was Regis, a fistful of her hair in his claws, neck exposed. He dropped to a knee, wrapped his arms around her like a lover and sank his fangs deep into her flesh. She hadn't time to scream or react for Regis drank and  _drank_ , pulling viciously like a man dying of thirst until she went slack in his arms. Geralt listened to each heady gulp and ragged breath working through the vampire.

Just as quickly, he released her, stumbling back as she fell onto her side like dead weight. Blood poured down her neck, painted his mouth and chest. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head while his were obsidian and glazed over. Unable to stand, he sat down awkwardly then fell back, into a drunken heap.

Geralt rushed over, grabbed Regis by his tunic and dragged him a safe distance away in case she came to a second time. But Laz's body began to twitch and contort. Her bones snapping and splintering apart, readjusting themselves as the curse returned to life. At last, the large wolf picked itself up on trembling legs and looked over. One blue eye and one gold peered at him. It looked worse for the wear, with a stomach stuck to its spine and protruding hipbones. With hardly any meat to its build, a knotty ridgeline marked its spine through thinning white fur. The thing looked like death itself.

It stepped out of the pile of entrails, ignoring the witcher and the inebriated vampire and shook out its coat, nearly falling over. Sniffing the grisly remains, it lapped up a bit of blood, nibbled on some flesh, then lost its appetite. It turned and looked towards the witcher again with its sorrowful eyes, a polar opposite of the stalking beast he met beneath Tesham Mutna.

At his side, Regis turned over and threw up. Dark blood splashed against the cobblestone. It took Geralt's help to prevent him from falling over again. Once finished, he pulled Regis to his feet as shouts and rattling armor drifted beyond the street. They still needed to find Dettlaff and now Regis was indisposed. He'd have to make do without the vampire's help.

"Can you walk?" he asked, using Regis' belt to hold him up.

"I'll manage," Regis took a deep breath. "Lazarus, where is she?"

"Gone," he'd been watching the wolf quietly saunter away with no task or destination in mind. No purpose or incentive. Like the night the family pet leaves and never returns, leaving the remaining members confused but mostly bereft.

"We must...," Regis' words slurred together, head dropping as he fought another wave of nausea. "I must get to her." He attempted to shrug Geralt off and walk, but his uncoordinated legs sent him falling sagging against the witcher's side. Geralt felt a terrible urge to have a drink himself. Perhaps after it all, when they found Syanna and delivered her to Dettlaff, when the city stopped burning, and the Duchess stopped hating him for it, they could share a snifter of Mandrake and watch the moonlight glitter off the Seidhe Llygad from a quiet spot in the graveyard.

It sounded nice. It sounded a lot like retirement.

"Let her go, Regis." Geralt said softly and for the second time. The wolf was gone now, disappearing somewhere, wandering aimlessly. Cruelly, the fight was not over yet. And the strange fear of losing Regis a second time was almost unbearable. Geralt still had to find Syanna and face Dettlaff.

Retirement would have to wait.


	31. Epilgoue

In _the end, the love once shared between Syanna and Dettlaff was not enough. Certainly not enough to sustain any cordial approach_ _between the two. And thus, amidst his emotional distress, Dettlaff cut Syanna down, striking her through with his claws before witcher or fellow kin could react. Naturally, the death of her sister did not sit well with Duchess Anna Henrietta and she confined Geralt of Rivia to the Toussaint prison where days turned to weeks, and weeks turned into months._

_And the months dragged on._

_Torn between waiting for Geralt's possible release and restoring his blood brother back to his eternal glory, Regis counted his losses and returned to his home in Dilligen with Dettlaff in tow. As for Lazarus' whereabouts, he was not certain._

_That night her blood had sent his mental faculties careening like leaves to the wind. Scattering with no sense of direction. Climbing and plummeting with no chance of regaining control; Regis had to force himself to throw up or lose his principles entirely. The bloodlust was unimaginable. Strangely, he still had difficulty recalling those moments, but he knew it happened._

_He searched for her often, sifting through his senses, listening for her in his mind. Nothing ever came of it. There was no one to answer his call._

_But as Geralt, a voice of reason said.._

_Regis had to let her go._

* * *

The cold wind stole away the warmth any traveler might have, sweeping it across an icy river churned white through the valleys. Neglected, forgotten, overrun, Kaer Morhen was ruins of what once promised a great foothold from days long past, tucked against the sharp foothills of an impressive mountain. Few travelers made it this far, even fewer beheld its ranges of peaks and carving rivers surrounding the witcher's fortress. Far-flung and protected by earth's perilous terrains, it was impossible to find if you didn't know where to look. And even then, there was plenty of illusions in place.

Under a bright sun and amidst a biting wind, the keep foundation was still swept in snow. Ice sickles glittered in the morning light and dripped as the day slowly warmed. Despite its appearances and lack of maintenance, the hold was still strong and unwavering. It held onto its past promises, wearing the scars honorably and humbly. Wildflowers and grass reigned unkempt across flagstone and climbed up broken walls. Moss blanketed post and toppled weapons racks softened to rot. A set of buckled stairs led aloft where the battlements overlooked the view of the Blue Mountains.

While many ranges provided gentle hillocks and gradual slopes into its ascent, the Blue Mountain offered no such respite. Consisting of steep inclines, sheer drops, and craggy, unstable cliff faces, the glaring fact that the witcher's chose this unforgiving and secluded wilderness for their training spoke clearly about the harsh guild that was the School of the Wolf.

In the dark belly of Kaer Morhen, a haunting draft carried through the dark cavernous hall. Leaves scattered across the weathered marble floors while iron chandeliers drove shadows into the corners of the high arched ceilings. Cobwebs quivered against the breeze. Insects weaved, buried, and strayed from the light. Torches hung from their iron sconces danced and wavered, revealing more weapon racks filled with spears, short and long swords, halberds and orions. Every surface dusty and riddled with cobwebs, including the table and the bookshelves lining to walls and filling the center of the hall.

Near a large hearth, Ciri ran a whetting stone down the length of her sword in careful, meticulous strokes. A healthy fire before her blazed brightly, playing with the shadows and weaving strings of gold in her gleaming ashen hair. She checked the edge's progress with her thumb before applying several more strokes. Then she paused, listening for something. The fire, reflected in her emerald eyes, shifted and whispered. She was alone here, so why...

_Turn around._

She twisted, casting a look over her shoulder just as the creature entered. It limped into the great hall, blood trickling from its snout. The moment she rose to her feet, it collapsed onto the floor. A long, mournful groan slipped from its lungs.  _It's dying,_ she realized and lowered her guard, frowning.

A pitiful heap of skin, bones, and matted, mangy fur, it lay there with its eyes closed and focused solely on breathing. With a sharp sword at her disposal, she had the means to put it out of its misery. Why it wandered into the fortress to die was unknown, but the least she could do for the creature was see it off cleanly and swiftly. She approached, sword in hand. It opened its weary stare, struggling to center its eyes onto her. A blazing gold in one and a warm, summer blue in the other. Ciri faltered with uncertainty. Each breath dragged through its lungs became more shallow and laborious than the last, shortening as the seconds ticked on.

_Put it out of its misery, Ciri._

Resolute, she closed the distance, boot heels knocking against the hard floor, lifted her sword.

And froze.


End file.
